The Loneliness of the Long Distance Cleric
by Teobi
Summary: Ted is advised to take a break by Dr. Sinnott, so he goes to a sleepy town on the mainland to find himself.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** This was going to be a one shot. But then I felt it could be developed into a longer story. Writing can sometimes be relaxing, and that's how this story feels to me. I hope you like reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

Delving into the crazy world of Craggy Island can be remarkably therapeutic.

* * *

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Cleric

You're heading for a nervous breakdown, Dr. Sinnott had said. You need a holiday- somewhere away from it all. So here he was, Father Ted Crilly, standing on a mainland clifftop, inhaling the briny smell of seaweed, which was just like the smell from the cliffs of Craggy Island, yet different. More _relaxing_. He felt he could stand here for hours without anyone appearing out of nowhere just to shout at him. Like Tom with his wild eyes and 'I shot JR' jumper, his bare arse covered in dog's teeth marks. _Doesn't it look like a face?_

The view in front of him blurred. An unwanted vision of Tom's arse filled the sky, his buttocks looming like thunderous clouds. Ted's breath caught in his throat as the breeze turned fetid, blowing out from the dark hole between those grimy globes. Shuddering with sudden nausea, Ted crammed that particular memory back in its lead lined box and buried it deep underground like some kind of dangerous radioactive substance. He pulled his collar up and bawked into his hand. Luckily nothing came up.

His stomach settled, and a refreshing breeze laced with salt caressed his face and ruffled his salt and pepper hair- more salt than pepper these days. Gulls wheeled above him and flew out to sea. The Atlantic ocean beckoned, a grey black expanse creased with endless white topped waves. _All the way to America,_ he thought. _All the way to the life I almost had._ That was another thought that had to be locked away in its box, if he were to recover from this overwhelming sense of failure and despair.

An hour passed without him knowing it, because in that hour nothing happened. No one accosted him, shouted at him, blamed him for something or tried to unburden their troubles onto him. His head, pain free without Dougal's chatter filling his ears, felt lighter than ever. His brain waves seemed at one with the waves on the sea, an endless procession, one following another, calm and hypnotic, as comforting as your mother's heartbeat felt through the walls of her womb.

Ted turned his back on the swishing sea and headed inland. Wildflowers lined the meandering path, clumps of white cornsalad and blue sheeps-bit. In the distance, thousands of buttercups and daisies dotted the surrounding fields. _God really does work miracles,_ he thought. _If only more people took the time to notice it. if only **I** took more time to notice it. _

He stopped and looked down at a buttercup. One tiny yellow flower among many, but it caught his attention nonetheless. He plucked it from the grass and held it under his chin. _If your chin turns yellow then you like butter._ He wondered where such a silly idea had come from, because of course your chin will turn yellow from the pollen. But he did it anyway, even though he couldn't see his chin. _I must look like a right eejit twirling a flower round my face_ he thought, but it only made him grin wider. _You have to do mad things once in a while, or you'll go mad._ The irony did not escape him.

The narrow streets of the small seaside town were uncannily quiet, as though the residents were enjoying an all-day siesta. Dougal would say they'd been abducted by aliens or some such nonsense. _The things he comes out with. He claims not to believe in Catholicism or even God, and yet he's the most innocent, unspoiled man I've ever met. A wide eyed labrador puppy in human form. In a little red tank top._

Dougal's face shimmered into being in front of him, superimposed onto a bus stop advertisement for Lynx shower gel. The original model in the photograph was your typical narcissistic clown, all brawn and no brains. The gel was called 'Brutal'. But with Dougal's childishly happy visage instead of the lantern-jawed teenager's predatory scowl, it was anything but brutish. The incongruity made Ted laugh out loud. A fragrance inspired by Dougal would probably be called 'Inoffensive', or 'Right Enough'. It wouldn't catch you a girl, but it would make old ladies want to pinch your cheeks.

There was a little row of shops past the bus stop. Their fronts had all been painted different colours and were no doubt bright at one time, but now they had faded a little, and on some of them the colour was peeling off. _Even weatherproof paint has its limits_ , thought Ted, feeling himself pulled towards a bric-a-brac shop, the kind that was found in every small town.

The shop smelled just like all bric-a-brac shops, a fusty mix of cobwebs and The Past. Surprisingly, two of the townspeople were browsing the clothes racks, but zombie-like, as if in a trance. A mantlepiece clock ticked away the minutes, the hours, the days and eventually years. There was a middle aged couple behind the counter. The woman was at the till and the man was sorting through a heap of donations.

"Good morning!" Ted plastered on his most easy-going smile and waved his hand in the air, feeling vaguely unsettled.

"Good morning, Father," the woman said, noticing his dog collar peeking out of his anorak. Her voice was nothing out of the ordinary, as was her appearance. She was mousy but rigid, her eyes peeping out from behind a pair of owlish Granny glasses. The man sorting the pile of junk looked up and smiled at him but said nothing.

Ted threw caution to the wind and launched his next sentence into the air like a reckless lunatic. "Nice shop you have here."

A flicker of surprise crossed the woman's face, but she covered it quickly. "Thank you, Father."

 _God Almighty, it's like pulling teeth,_ thought Ted. His smile was starting to make his face hurt. "Yes. Well, I'm new here. I'm taking a bit of a rest from my duties and all that. You know how it is, all work and no play..."

"Oh yes, we get rushed off our feet sometimes. Don't we, Daragh?" The woman's glum expression suggested otherwise.

The man ignored her and looked at Ted with curiosity. "What on earth do priests need a break from?"

"Oh, you know," said Ted, "worshipping too hard, taking it all too seriously, not having enough of a laugh..." dear God, now he was beginning to sound like Dougal. "I think I'll go and have a look at those books," he garbled, inching away from the counter. This was nothing like John and Mary's shop on the island. Good old John and Mary, always with a cheery smile and a greeting for their favourite priest. A couple who clearly loved their work and valued their customers and were always happy to have a chat while you shopped. In _this_ place, he may as well have been a fly crawling on a dusty lampshade for all the attention he was getting. Even the two sleepwalking customers barely gave him a glance.

Ted browsed the books, an altogether dull collection of battered romance novels and spy thrillers. Not even anything by Polly Clarke. Mrs. Doyle would be happy about that, but he fancied something he could get his teeth into. He murmured a quick prayer of contrition at the thought of Miss Clarke, although he was sure the Almighty wouldn't mind since she had become a nun and given up her earthly ways, more's the pity.

He selected what he thought was the best of a bad bunch and went back to the counter. He waved his book cheerily before plonking it down on the desk. "I'll take this one," he announced. The book only cost a few pennies and the woman barely looked up as she took the money from him. "Thought I'd walk down to the promenade and buy some fish and chips," Ted continued, wondering why he was even trying. "Have a read of the old book there."

"Which one did you buy, Father?" asked Daragh, showing a bit of interest at last.

Encouraged, Ted waved the book again. "A Minute Past the Hour, by Michael T. Nolan. Bit of a spy thriller... lots of undercover shenanigans no doubt."

"Oh! That's one of _my_ old books. I brought a great big box of books in six months ago and nobody's touched any of 'em."

"Until now," Ted replied merrily. "Is it any good?"

"No, it's rubbish. If I were the author I'd jump off a bridge and kill meself. But each to their own. _You_ might like it. Me, I prefer Polly Clarke." That comment earned him a stern glare from the woman, who was probably his wife.

Ted would have preferred Polly Clarke too, but he certainly couldn't say it out loud. Making do with a book that was evidently below par (according to the famous book critic Daragh), he decided against any further exchange with the shopkeepers. He looked around; one customer had left the shop unnoticed, and the other was pulling at the seams of a dress that looked like it had been on the rail since 1902. The mantlepiece clock ticked on, holding him in its fusty time bubble. He decided to leave too.

"Well, 'bye then." He backed away from the counter with his new/old book, receiving a pleasant enough but quite disinterested "Goodbye, Father" in return. Not even a 'take care now', or 'see you again soon'. He knew they weren't obligated to treat him like an old friend they hadn't seen for years, but a bit less taciturnity would not have gone amiss.

No- these dour mainlanders were _nothing_ like John and Mary.

Out on the pavement, Ted filled his lungs with fresh air and turned his face to the sky. The sun came out from behind a cloud and warmed his face like a kiss from God. He looked at his book. He didn't care whether it was rubbish or not. He was going to read the whole thing just to spite Daragh, and then he was going to return it to the shop so that Daragh would have to look at it again.

The sun went back behind the cloud.

"I'm sorry," said Ted, "but can you blame me?"

The sun stayed put.

"Right then. Be like that. I'm off to get some fish and chips." Ted was proud of his relationship with the Almighty. He wasn't a complete non-believer like Dougal, nor was he as pious as the Pope. He believed all right, but he wasn't obsequious. He didn't sin all week and then kiss the Almighty's arse in the hopes he would still get to Heaven. And even though there was a small section of society that disapproved of some of his wilder antics, God Himself knew that the money really _was_ resting in his account, and God knew that he was going to pay back every penny of the teeny, weeny amount that he'd used to take himself to Las Vegas. Anyway, there was no scientific proof that Lourdes worked. Many people went away disappointed. Ted felt that he'd saved at least one family from a potential tragedy.

A small bit of his faith in himself slotted back into place. Feeling a little better, Father Ted Crilly lifted his pollen dusted chin, crossed the traffic-free street, and went off in search of a takeaway.


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Doyle licked her finger and smoothed down a wayward lock of Father Dougal McGuire's hair.

"Don't fidget," she scolded.

"I can't help it," the young priest fretted. "I'm scared we'll get another mad fella like Father Stack."

Mrs. Doyle shivered. Father Fintan Stack, the sociopathic priest who enjoyed loud jungle music at 3am and drilling holes in the walls for no reason other than personal enjoyment, was hopefully still stuck at St. Clabbert's. Someone else's problem, not theirs.

She straightened Dougal's collar, picked a bit of lint from his patterned tank top, and squared the shoulders of his formal black jacket. "I don't believe there _is_ another priest like Father Stack. At least not on _this_ earthly plane. Besides, he was Father Hackett's replacement, not Father Crilly's. I'm sure Bishop Brennan will give us someone with a little bit more responsibility."

"Oh, right. That reminds me. What time is Len arriving?"

"He'll be here any minute. And you know you're not to call him Len. He doesn't like it."

"All right, Mrs. Doyle. I'll try to remember that." Dougal pulled back his shoulders and stood to attention. "How do I look?"

Mrs. Doyle beamed at her handiwork. The young priest had been scrubbed to within an inch of his life in the bath and smelled as soft and powdery as a baby's behind. His hair was neatly combed, his dog collar a credit to the Almighty. His cheeks were pink and rounded, his smile as wide as a boy on his first day of big school.

"Like a beautiful cherub too good for this world," she declared, earning herself a bark of disgust from Father Jack.

"Why didn't you give Father Jack a bath?" asked Dougal. "He's filthy."

The old priest leered and gave a devilish chuckle. Before she could think of a suitable answer, one that wouldn't lead to more questions, Mrs. Doyle was literally saved by the bell. The door chime suddenly and unexpectedly reverberated through the hallway. Mrs. Doyle and Dougal jumped a mile in the air.

"Oh my... oh my, there they are now!" Mrs Doyle flapped and flailed in a circle before hurtling out of the room as the bell rang again, much more impatiently this time. She flung the door wide to be greeted by Bishop Brennan looking thunderous. Next to him stood a tall, sombre looking priest with black hair plastered down, displaying an alarming widow's peak that jutted onto his forehead. He peered down his long, thin nose at Mrs. Doyle as though she were an insect under glass. The housekeeper seemed frozen to the spot, staring back at this gangly newcomer with startled apprehension.

"Aren't you going to invite us in, Mrs. Doyle?" the Bishop asked, sarcastically.

Mrs. Doyle snapped out of her trance and sprang into action. She ushered them in, issuing a stream of apologies and offering tea. The sombre priest wore the ghost of a smile that didn't quite reach his dark, glittering eyes.

Dougal, still standing to attention in the hastily tidied living room, pulled himself up even further.

"Good morning, Len!" he shouted, a tad over-enthusiastically. Behind Bishop Brennan, Mrs. Doyle shook her head violently, _'No!'_

"i told you not to call me Len, ye little bollox!"

Father Jack guffawed in the corner.

"Sorry, Len. I mean, sorry Bishop Len. I mean, Bishop Brennan. Sir."

The Bishop swept past Dougal, bringing the sombre priest fully into the room. Father Jack's eyes narrowed and he emitted a low, feral growl.

"This is Father Fergus O'Dowd. Father Crilly's replacement." The Bishop sounded triumphant.

"Oh, right," said Dougal. "He looks a bit like Dracula," he added, unable to stop himself.

"I beg your pardon?" said Bishop Brennan, already beginning to seethe.

Mrs. Doyle spoke up, somewhat hysterically. "I'll put the tea on!" she announced. "Will you have a cup of tea, Father O'Dowd?"

"No, thank you," the sombre priest spoke for the first time. His voice was low, smooth, and oddly mellifluous. "I simply cannot abide tea."

Mrs. Doyle's eyes flickered back and forth between O'Dowd and the Bishop. "So... is that a yes?"

"It is most emphatically _not_ a 'yes'. It is a definite 'No'. I _hate_ tea. I cannot _stand_ the stuff. I would not take tea if I were burning in the Eternal Fires of Hell and it was the only thing that could extinguish the flames." O'Dowd smiled at the housekeeper, blinking like a sleepy cat. Jack did a comedy double take, Dougal was stunned into silence at last, and even Bishop Brennan looked alarmed for a split second.

Mrs. Doyle's lip began to tremble. She looked as though she were about to cry. She had never met anyone who hated tea. She had no backup plan for this type of emergency, except her tried and tested methods of persuasion.

"Ah, go on," she began, nervously. "Just a drop. Just a teeny, tiny drop. A splash. Go on, go on, go on."

"NO!" O'Dowd almost shouted, then brought himself quickly under control. "No, thank you kindly. it's been a long journey and I'm a little fractious. I would much prefer a cup of coffee, if you have it."

Bishop Brennan cleared his throat. "I'm sure Father O'Dowd didn't mean to snap. Did you, Father?"

"I did not," O'Dowd said, smoothly. "I shall be just fine after a cup of coffee."

Mrs. Doyle scuttled away to the kitchen, rolling the word 'coffee' around on her tongue as she tasted it for the first time. She glanced back at Dougal before she went through the door, but he was too busy staring at O'Dowd and she couldn't catch his eye. It was in the hands of God, now.

Bishop Brennan settled himself onto the sofa. "Father O'Dowd has been looking forward to this challenge immensely. It's high time a little order was brought to this parish, and he's just the man to bring you all in line." He fixed a beady eye on Father Jack. "There'll be no more trouble from you," he asserted, then brought his steely gaze back to Dougal. "And no more lives irreparably destroyed by you. Do you know how many people have left the Catholic faith because of your incompetence, Father McGuire?"

Dougal smiled sheepishly. "No," he said. "How many?"

"Hundreds. If not thousands!"

"Wow. I don't know what to say. I'm humbled. Truly humbled."

"That wasn't a compliment, you blithering little idiot! You've single handedly caused a crisis in the Church the likes of which has never been seen before!"

Dougal looked even more amazed. "I wonder how I did that?"

"I don't know, since you're not stupid enough to be a double agent for the Protestants, and that's saying something."

Dougal blushed. "Thanks, Len. I do my best, you know. Praising the Almighty and all that. It's just that the idea of Heaven and Hell seems a bit farfetched... it's a bit too much of a stretch of the old imagination."

"Teletubbies is too much of a stretch for _your_ imagination," the Bishop sneered.

"Ah, Teletubbies are great. They're educational. They help me to remember the sign of the cross." Bishop Brennan watched in horror as Dougal waved his hand over his body, from forehead to chest, left shoulder to right. "Tinky Winky. Dipsy. Laa Laa. Po."

"Irreparably destroyed," the Bishop muttered under his breath. "Irreparably."

"Oh come on," Dougal said cheerily, his hand sweeping down as though he were playing tennis. "You're not meant to take it seriously."

Father O'Dowd looked up sharply. Only momentarily distracted by Mrs. Doyle reappearing from the kitchen with a tray piled high, he pinned Dougal with a withering glare.

"On the contrary, Father McGuire," he hissed. "I take my work very seriously. _Very_ seriously indeed. And under my tutelage, so will you. Even if my hair turns white from trying!"

Dougal went pale. He ran over to Mrs. Doyle, not even subtly.

"Mrs. Doyle, I'm scared," he whimpered.

Mrs. Doyle's protective nature came forward. She put the tray down on the coffee table and lifted a cup and saucer.

"I found a jar of c... c... " She closed her eyes and tried again. "C... c... " It was no use, she couldn't say it. "That other stuff that isn't tea, in the back of the cupboard. I've never made it before, so I hope it's to your liking."

O'Dowd accepted the offering with a courteous tip of his head. He sniffed the dark liquid, inhaling its scent like an addict. Everyone, including Jack, held their breath as they watched him take a dainty sip from the very edge of the cup. After swirling it round his mouth and swallowing, his eyebrows arched in surprise.

"Unexpectedly delightful!"

The entire room let out its collective breath. Mrs. Doyle beamed smugly as the sombre priest took another hearty sip. She leaned towards Dougal and stage whispered in his ear.

"That jar has been in the cupboard for years. There were cobwebs on it!"

Dougal began giggling.

"And mould under the lid! And it was stuck to the shelf with some kind of black, sticky glue. And inside the jar there was... " she paused for dramatic effect, "a _dead spider_!"

Dougal shuddered with laughter, trying not to snort tea through his nose. Bishop Brennan pursed his lips and glowered, but said nothing as O'Dowd gulped the rest of his coffee in one go.

"That truly was the best cup of coffee I have ever had," the priest announced, replacing the empty cup and saucer onto the tray with a polite clink. "I think I may enjoy my stay here, after all!"

Mrs. Doyle's face dropped. Dougal stage whispered back to her from the corner of his mouth. "Well done, Mrs. Doyle. Now he's going to live with us forever and ever and ever, and we'll never ever see Ted again!"

Defeated, Mrs. Doyle could only stare blankly at the gloating Bishop and the sinister visage of Father O'Dowd. Over in the corner, Jack slumped like a dead fly caught in tar, his milky eye wide open and a string of drool hanging from his lip, no use to anyone at all. She clung to Father McGuire, the only pure thing in the house, desperate for his innocence and clean, baby-soft smell to banish the creeping sense of evil in her soul.

"I hope we will enjoy it too, Father," she stuttered, not knowing what else to say, and frightened of offending the Bishop.

"Oh, I am sure you will," the sombre priest replied, gently. "I am _sure_ you will."

Mrs. Doyle gave him a sickly smile. The room darkened as the sun went behind a cloud, and she swore she heard thunder rumbling in the distance.


	3. Chapter 3

Business was slow today in 'Morgan's Fish and Chips', the only fish and chip shop on the small promenade. However that didn't stop the owner signalling to his daughter to get the tourist menu out when he saw Father Ted approaching.

Quick as a flash, the auburn haired young woman rolled away the regular menu with its value meals, Deals of the Day and and two-for-one lunch specials, and up came the seasonal menu full of tiny portions at rip off prices.

"Good morning, Father!" The owner smiled broadly as Ted came into the shop. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

Ted was pleasantly surprised to find a cheerful person in the town. "Why yes, it is," he agreed. He noticed the young woman hovering at the kitchen door and nodded to her. She was very pretty. Extremely pretty, in fact.

Things were looking up.

"Are ye new here?" the owner asked. He hoped to reel in this Man of God with a full-on charm offensive and get him to spend all his money.

Ted nodded. "Yes, but not for work. I'm taking a short break before I return to my parish."

The owner pressed his lips together in sympathy. "Does it get to ye after a while, people confessin' their sins and whinin' to ye all day about their troubles?"

"Well, I'm not really supposed to talk about what goes on in case Someone is listening," Ted pointed upwards in a conspiratorial manner, "but you've got the gist of it."

"Bein' a shop owner isn't so different," the owner said, looking towards the ceiling. "I think I've heard all the gossip and rumours there are to hear in a small town like this. Anyway, Father, I'm sure you must be hungry, what with the sea air and all that. What'll ye have?"

Encouraged by the man's friendliness, Ted looked up and perused the menu. It wasn't long before his happy mood deflated and his eyes boggled out of his head. His mouth moved silently, repeating the prices with disbelief. Meanwhile, the owner stood there blinking innocently, waiting for Ted to order.

"I'll have, um... c-cod and... " no, that would bankrupt him, "... no, wait... the uh, the pies look nice... "

"All the pies are freshly baked by my own fair daughter."

"Oh, well, in that case... er... " Even the pies were extortionate. Ted's fingers closed around his wallet. He wondered where the nearest cash machine was.

"She's a keen fisherwoman, too. All of the fish we sell is caught by her own God given hands."

Ted glanced at the girl. She blushed attractively. She didn't look the fisherwoman type, but who was he to argue? Dougal McGuire didn't look like a priest and yet he was.

"All right then, I'll have cod and chips and a cheese and onion pie." Sweat began to break out on his forehead and his grip tightened.

The owner set the chips on to fry and the girl disappeared into the kitchen.

"I'd highly recommend meat and potato. It melts in the mouth, so it does."

Ted grimaced. "All right, so. Meat and potato."

The owner went to the till at an alarming speed. "So that's one large cod and chips, one cheese and onion pie, and one meat and potato pie. To wash it down with, I'll throw in a can of fizzy orange for half price. How's that."

Ted's heart sank. It was ridiculous- a half price can cost more than six cans would cost in a supermarket. He hadn't ordered large cod and chips, and he didn't mean he wanted two pies, but it was too late. The owner was already ringing up at the till and he didn't want to upset the man's daughter. He pulled out his wallet and pried it open, staring forlornly at its meagre contents which were about to get even smaller.

But the owner wasn't finished.

"Ye can have an extra scoop of chips for a pound."

"No, that's really not... "

"And a pot of gravy for 50p."

Ted sighed. May as well just empty the wallet onto the counter.

The grand total of Ted's order came to twenty five Irish pounds exactly. Which was coincidentally all he had. He handed it over with a whimper. The fish shop owner took it without shame. His daughter put all the parcels and containers into a sturdy plastic bag with the 'Morgan's Chipper' logo on it.

"Ordinarily a bag would cost 20p but I'll let ye have it for nothing, since you've been such a wonderful customer."

"Thank you," said Ted, through gritted teeth.

"Come again soon!" said the man with a cheery wave as Ted left the shop with his bulging bag.

"Not likely," muttered Ted under his breath.

Behind him in the chip shop, the owner's daughter rolled the regular menu back into place. Ted's entire meal would barely have reached ten pounds, even with all the added extras that he didn't ask for.

"I can't wait until we start using the Euro," the man cackled, rubbing his hands together.

Ted crossed the road to the Promenade and found a nice bench to sit on. Just as he sat down, an elderly lady appeared and parked herself at the other end. Ted hovered mid-sit, but the old lady waved dismissively.

"Don't mind me, Father. I won't bother you. It's just that I always sit here at this time of day."

"I didn't know this was your seat. I can move on if you'd prefer."

"Goodness me, no. It's a public bench! You sit yourself down and enjoy your meal. I just sit here and watch the waves."

"All right. I hope the smell of fish and chips won't put you off."

Ted opened his bag of food and was instantly set upon by a flock of seagulls. They swarmed around him, blotting his view of the beach, the sea, and even the old lady. He pulled out one of the pies, opened his mouth, and a gull whipped the whole pie out of his hand and flew off with it.

"You ba... " he quickly stopped himself from cursing. "You _bad_ seagull! That pie cost me five pounds!"

The old lady stared at him in alarm. " _Five pounds_?" But he couldn't hear her over the screaming gulls. He took out the other pie and another gull grabbed it before he even took the wrapper off. That was ten pounds gone and he hadn't even tasted a crumb. Tentatively, he removed the parcel of fish and chips and guarded it close to his chest. The gulls hovered, glaring at him with black, glittering eyes. No sooner had he tweaked a tiny, chip sized hole in the corner of the paper than the entire flock descended and stole the parcel right out from under his nose. Ted was left empty handed and open mouthed as the gulls fought over the fish and chips in midair. Chips rained down and were quickly snapped up by sharp, greedy beaks. One lone gull grabbed the bag with its remaining contents- a can of overpriced pop and a tiny tub of gravy that had cost him three pounds fifty- and flew out over the sea where it promptly dropped the bag into the water. Finally, as Ted waved his fists angrily at the flock, a white blob of poo hit him squarely on the forehead.

"That's a sign of good luck," said the old lady as all the gulls disappeared as quickly as they had arrived.

Ted, his ears still ringing from the noise, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped away the poo.

"That's a relief," he said drily. "I was beginning to think my whole day was a washout."

"What's the book you're reading?"

Ted showed her the book he'd bought from the bric-a-brac shop. Its true shabbiness was revealed by the sunlight. The pages were yellow and there were coffee rings on the cover. He felt embarrassed.

"Hmm. I don't care much for spy thrillers," she said, wrinkling her nose. "I prefer Gothic Erotica. ' _Oh, now look. She prays to the Mother of Jesus as if she believes she can intercede for her. Play all you want, whore, I will have my fun later._ ' " She leaned over and nudged a shocked Ted in the ribs. "That's a quote from the one I'm reading right now. Do you want to know what happens next?"

Ted gave her a sickly smile. "Er no, thank you. I'm sure I can imagine."

"Ooh, Father! I hope you can't. It's not for the likes of you." She winked in a manner that was quite unbecoming for someone of her age.

"The likes of me?"

"You know. A man of the cloth. God fearing."

Ted folded his arms and turned his upper body towards her so that he could look her right in the eye. "All right, let me guess. Is it full of wall-to-wall bastards? Does it contain the F word? You know, the _bad_ F word? The one worse than 'Feck'? Does it contain the lines, 'eff you', "eff your effin' wife', and "I'll stick this effin' pitchfork up your hole'?"

The old lady stared back, speechless.

"Is it fierce stuff, Mrs... ?" The old lady mumbled a name but he didn't hear it and it didn't matter because he didn't care anyway. "Is it full of dreadful language like 'you big bastard, you big hairy arse, you big Fecker'?" He leaned forward slightly, and she leaned back, afraid. "You Big Bollocks'? ' _Get your bollocks out of my face_?'" He didn't care that he was beginning to sound slightly hysterical. It felt so feckin' _good_... this sudden release of anger and frustration. It was just a pity that the recipient of his ire was a dotty old lady who read dirty books and not the criminal in the chip shop or the rude couple in the bric-a-brac shop who deserved it.

Or Dr. Sinnott, come to think of it, or Bishop Brennan. Or Father Jack Hackett, or Father Dougal McGuire, or even Mrs. Doyle- those three millstones that had been around his neck for longer than he cared to remember.

It just felt _good_ , that's all.

The old lady got up and scuttled away.

Ted went to the railing and threw the spy thriller into the sea, forgetting that he'd intended to read it and return it to the shop. He was sick of burdens. Sick of being nice. Sick of duty, sick of responsibility, sick of being ripped off and sick of being criticised. He was sick of being skint, and he was still fecking hungry.

He felt clammy. He sat down and put his head in his hands. He didn't like where he was right now. Dr. Sinnott had said he needed a break, but what was a break anyway? Wherever you went, there you were- with all your baggage and all your nonsense and all your expectations. You took everything with you, whether you meant to or not. You couldn't get away from yourself, not ever.

How was it any different in this strange little town to how it was on Craggy Island?

And how different would it have been in America? Where exactly _was_ this magical place that held all the answers to his hopes, his fears, his dreams, and his many, many prayers?

Ted got up and started walking. He still had a lot to think about.


	4. Chapter 4

As Ted walked along the Promenade, the wind became stronger. Soon it was shredding the tops of the waves and sending flecks of foam into his face. He descended the flight of stone steps to the beach. Pebbles crunched under his feet, the taste of seaweed was in his mouth. He pulled up his anorak hood and straight away it blew back. He had to hold it in place with his hands, but finally he gave up and left his head bare. The hood whipped around his neck, snapping like a kite.

There was no one on the beach and he felt like the only person in the world. Salt water stung his cheeks, a thousand sharp slaps from God Himself. Ted lifted his face higher as it began to rain. Soon he was soaking wet, his white hair turned dark, plastered to his scalp. If this was his penance then so be it. Let the Almighty wash him off with some of His Godly tears- as many as He could spare for a worthless sinner like himself.

How could he have thought he'd find happiness. How could he even have dared to try? He hadn't found it in Las Vegas, although it _had_ been fun, dancing with young ladies and whatnot like John Travolta. Father Cagney made America sound so exciting, but was it really? Was happiness real, or subjective? Certainly none of the dour inhabitants of this town seemed happy, even the young colleen in the fish shop. And the people of Craggy Island might seem happy, some of them, but they were all mad as hatters if not downright imbeciles. They'd be happy sitting in a mud puddle counting their toes.

He'd had this weird idea that America was full of sane and successful people. Upstanding citizens, pillars of the community who would treat him with the respect he craved. But Ted Crilly was nobody special. Like so many who had gone before him, he'd be just another hopeful grovelling at the feet of Lady Liberty. Another face lost in the crowd, a teeny tiny minnow in an ocean of great white sharks.

The sea appeared to agree with him. It flung spume in his eyes, clogged his ears and nose. Salt burned his throat but he stayed put, battered by the wind and rain. Water trickled down his spine and into his priestly underpants- no dignity even for him. His plastic hood was going mental, the whole stupid anorak behaving like the sail of a yacht. Ted ripped it off- he was wet anyway- and let it fly into the air, its arms waving like a lunatic released from an asylum.

From then on, the rain only intensified. Anyone silly enough to be standing on the Prom would have seen the small, blurred figure absorbed by the mist, gradually disappearing into the ether like a time traveller returning home, or the Holy Ghost himself, walking out across the waves.

Ted's hand went to his throat and took hold of his dog collar, intending to rip it off and send it after the anorak. But at the last minute he hesitated, his knuckles pressed against his jugular. The battle raged within him and he didn't know whether the salt on his face was from rain, sea or his own tears.

But Ted didn't cry, so it couldn't be _that._

His hand fell to his side. He couldn't do it. He thought of all he'd been through. How he'd always stood in the shadow of his doctor brother, how he'd felt doomed to the fate of the second son- a 'career' in the priesthood. This thing around his neck had kept him bound to the Man Upstairs for so long he felt naked without it. He loosened his grip and rubbed the stiff material where it circled his neck. There was just enough belief left in him to know that the Almighty had not forsaken him.

Father Ted Crilly had forsaken himself.

* * *

Mrs. Doyle was in the kitchen crying. Father O'Dowd had screamed at her from the top of the stairs for rattling cups while he was praying.

"Sure, what's he doin' prayin' in the middle of the day for?" Dougal was trying to comfort the housekeeper but it wasn't working. Mrs. Doyle was inconsolable.

"I only thought he might be thirsty," she sobbed. "He's been up there for almost two hours."

Dougal frowned. He almost looked thoughtful. "Mrs. Doyle, you haven't done anything wrong. Stop blubbering. Put the tea on, and I'll sort things out."

Mrs. Doyle's eyes widened and a sob caught in her throat as Dougal puffed himself up and strode out of the kitchen. Over in his corner, Jack sat drooling and babbling, cradling his empty whiskey bottle.

"I'm going to have a word," said Dougal, earning himself a wild eyed stare.

The young priest stomped up the stairs and rapped on the guest room door. When there was no answer, he put his ear to the door. There was low murmuring coming from within- a strange incantation Dougal had never heard before, even at the most boring Mass he'd ever attended, when Father Purcell had taken charge and asked the parishioners one by one how long they thought God's beard was.

Dougal opened the door and went in. He was surprised to find the curtains closed and the room in total darkness except for one candle burning on the night stand. Father O'Dowd was on his knees by the bed, holding a crucifix tightly in both hands with his sleek, dark head bowed to his chest. He twitched slightly as Dougal approached.

"Hey, you," the young priest said firmly. "There's no need to shout at Mrs. Doyle."

Father O'Dowd continued praying.

"I _said_ \- there's no need to... "

O'Dowd was suddenly at his full six feet four without Dougal even noticing how he'd got there.

" **BE QUIET**! How **DARE** you interrupt my communication with the Holy Father!" The sound was like the bellow of an angry bull in an echo chamber, and sent Dougal reeling backwards. But the thought of Mrs. Doyle in tears caused the young priest to stand firm.

"Mrs. Doyle was only trying to help," he said, aware that he was squeaking. "She was worried you'd been prayin' too hard."

Father O'Dowd squinted in the candelight.

"There is no such thing as praying too hard," he sneered. "Only praying too little."

Dougal's wide blue eyes flitted around the room. "Why is it so dark in here?"

"I don't need light to see the Lord."

"No but you'll need it to see your prayer book, there." Dougal glanced at the thick tome laying open on the bed. It didn't look like any of the Bibles in the house, but admittedly he didn't read them very often. He had his own Bible, with pictures in it, that he kept under his bed.

"The candle is sufficient," O'Dowd said coolly. "I have perfect eyesight."

"All right," said Dougal, still trying to sound authoritative. "But about Mrs. Doyle- "

Father O'Dowd nodded. "Yes, you were right. There was no need for my insolent behaviour. Please tell her I'm sorry. I shall be down for coffee soon, but in the meantime there's no need for her to worry about me."

"She's very upset. _Very_ upset. Cryin' and everything." Dougal paused a second, then shuddered. Crying women made him nervous. Then again, women doing anything made him nervous.

"I shall make it up to her, I promise."

Dougal tugged the hem of his tanktop the way Jean Luc Picard pulled his uniform on Star Trek The Next Generation, one of his favourite TV shows.

"Well then, I'll be going."

Dougal went to the door, but turned back at the last second. O'Dowd was standing in the flickering light, still holding his crucifix. Dougal frowned. Something wasn't quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Something wrong, Father McGuire?"

Dougal pursed his lips. "I don't know."

"Well, I wouldn't worry. I'm sure it's nothing."

"Right," said Dougal. A cold prickle went down his neck. Suddenly he couldn't wait to be out of that dark, stuffy room that still smelled of rabbits.

"Perhaps you'll join me in my next prayer session," O'Dowd said with a slow, creeping smile. "I'm sure my Lord would look very favourably on a pure young man like yourself."

"Perhaps," said Dougal, and was out of the room before the dark priest could say anything more. "Perhaps _not_ ," he finished, scurrying down the stairs like a mad hamster, past Father Jack in his dirty old chair and back to the kitchen.

Mrs. Doyle jumped up from the chair where she'd been sitting rock still, frightened to even breathe in case she disturbed anyone.

"Father! How did you get on?"

Dougal shook his head, looking more baffled than ever. "He's a weird one all right. Prayin' in the dark, readin' from a strange lookin' Bible. We've never had anyone so religious in the House before. But he did apologise for makin' you cry."

"Oh, Father! You didn't tell him I was crying?"

Dougal nodded. "Like a baby."

Mrs. Doyle swatted the young priest affectionately. "Thank you for standing up for me," she said, her eyes twinkling.

Dougal began following Mrs. Doyle around the kitchen as she resumed her tea making duties. Happy once more, she hummed her favourite tune, 'My Lovely Mayo Mammy', as she bustled about.

"There was something about him, though. Something that didn't seem right. I suppose he's entitled to pray in the dark if he wants to, but it wasn't that... it was something else."

Mrs. Doyle smiled sweetly. "I'm sure it will come to you, Father."

Dougal began to mutter and pace. Mrs. Doyle slalomed around him like an Olympic skier, never once dropping a cup or spilling a drop.

"I've got it!" The young priest's face lit up as he savoured his Eureka! moment. "It was the crucifix! He was holding a crucifix the whole time I was talkin' to him."

Mrs. Doyle stopped and looked at Dougal in puzzlement. "But there's nothing wrong with that. He is a priest, after all."

"But Mrs. Doyle... " Dougal's bright, boyish face turned sombre. "He was holdin' it... _upside down_."

You could have heard a pin drop in the kitchen of the Craggy Island Parochial House. And outside, the thunderstorm drew closer.


	5. Chapter 5

Ted's drenching had left him cold to the bone. When he got back to the guesthouse he stood under a hot shower until the bathroom filled up with steam. Afterwards he got dressed again- no need to worry about what to wear when you were a priest- and went downstairs to inquire about something to eat. The landlord, a pleasant enough fellow but not particularly talkative, disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a single cheese sandwich on a plate. Ted accepted it with more enthusiasm than it deserved, and took it into the lounge to see if there was anyone around.

As luck would have it, there was a lone guest sitting in an armchair by the window. A woman, reading a book. She looked up when Ted arrived and smiled graciously. Ted nodded and crossed over to an opposing chair. It was close enough to make conversation, not too far away as to seem standoffish. He sat down with his sandwich and gestured at her book.

"I don't want to disturb you."

The woman closed her book and placed it on the small table beside her. "Oh, no, Father. Not at all. Just passing the time."

Ted took a bite of his sandwich. The bread was a little dry but the cheese was nice- some kind of tangy cheddar. He looked out of the window as he chewed. He couldn't see much through the net curtains but it looked as though the squall was blowing over.

"And what are you doing in this little town, Father...?"

"Crilly," mumbled Ted, taken by surprise. He swallowed quickly. "Father Ted Crilly. I'm here on... well, shall we say, a small vacation."

She had spoken to him directly, so he felt he had permission to look at her. She wasn't old, but neither was she in the first flush of youth. She was attractive, very slender, with discreetly symmetrical features. Her wavy, shoulder length hair was a sort of brownish blonde and her eyes were a sort of gold/hazel. Her nose was straight and rather elegant, and her mouth had a humorous look about it, as though she were always on the verge of smiling. She wore a lilac cowl-neck sweater and floral patterned skirt that covered her knees without being prim. Her legs were shapely and her shoes were sensible, with about two inches of heel. She looked like your best friend's mother when you were a child. The one who always welcomed you into their house and gave you cake, then left you alone to get on with your playing.

"Are you holidaying yourself?" asked Ted.

She smiled. "I'm supposed to be, but I fear it won't be long before I'm back at work. My name is Marian, by the way." She leaned forward and extended her hand, which was just within Ted's reach if he leaned forward too. It was a bit of an odd handshake, more of a fingershake, but somehow it didn't seem awkward.

"Nice to meet you, Marian." Ted sat back and picked up his sandwich. "I hope you don't mind me eating. Only my fish and chips were stolen by seagulls and I'm so hungry my stomach thinks my throat's been cut." He laughed briefly before sinking his teeth into the bread. Marian smiled and allowed him to eat, but after a while he didn't feel hungry anymore. He put the plate down on the carpet next to his chair.

"Finished already?"

"Yes. Don't want to appear greedy. Starving children and all that." Ted twiddled his thumbs. _Now_ he felt awkward.

"Well then, why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself?"

He was taken aback by her question. No one had asked him about himself for a very long time. Everyone on Craggy Island knew him as well as they wanted to. He was Father Ted, no more no less. But here was someone who seemed genuinely interested, and a complete stranger at that.

"What do you want to know?"

Marian leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. "Whatever you want to tell me."

The weather was brightening up. Intermittent flashes of sunlight cast a honeyed halo around her hair and revealed the incredible depth of her eyes. He was drawn into them, drawn to _her_ , but in a curiously detached way, like a patient with a particularly caring and sympathetic psychiatrist. He wondered if that's what she actually was.

He found himself talking, and then he found he couldn't _stop_ talking. She was so easy to talk to. She didn't butt in or yawn or start looking out of the window. She nodded every so often, smiled when it was appropriate, showed concern when it was appropriate. He told her about Craggy Island and the events that had led him there. He didn't even hold back on details. He told her all about the money that was resting in his account and how he intended to pay it back. He told her about Dougal and Jack and Mrs. Doyle and how they drove him mental but they were all he had, and that drove him even _more_ mental. He went on and on and on, and the more he talked the more pitiful his life story sounded. But she radiated warmth, like a cosy fire on a winter's day, and so he kept going. Bishop Brennan. Father Stone. That time everyone thought he was racist. Nearly being killed in a plane crash, and then wishing he _had_ been killed in a plane crash because now all the priests knew his old nickname, 'Father Fluffy Bottom'.

Father Dick Byrne and that whole competitive mob on Rugged Island. Henry Sellers tearing the place up in an alcoholic frenzy. Sister Assumpta and her torturous health routine. Dougal's little rebellion with Father Damo that nearly got him into real trouble. The attempted theft of the Golden Cleric Award. Everything he'd ever been through, been responsible for, or tried to wriggle out of. All of his cartoonish scams and rigged raffles. The words came flooding out like water through a burst dam.

He told her of his failed escape to America and the final shattering of his last dream.

He admitted that all through these countless misadventures he'd felt that he wasn't fulfilling his purpose. He didn't even know if it had anything to do with religion. He felt incomplete, like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. And hopelessly out of control of even the simplest tasks. Because everything _always went wrong._

"I don't know what to do," he lamented. "I think I'm doomed to a life on Craggy Island forever, as punishment for all my mistakes."

Marian said nothing for a moment. She looked deep in thought, but the kindness shone out of her so he knew she wasn't going to judge him badly. Nevertheless, he was worried she was going to think he was a pompous ass who didn't know when to shut up.

"What a thoroughly wonderful journey," she said at last. "All those adventures and experiences. All those people you've met. I'm very envious. I just sit in an office all day, every day... sometimes seven days a week if I'm really busy."

Ted was surprised, but wholly relieved. "If you don't mind me asking," he shifted nervously, "are you a .. a doctor, or a psychiatrist?"

"I work with people, yes. I've done so for many years, and I'd like to think I can spot a good person when I see one."

Ted looked around at the empty room. "Where?"

Marian laughed gently. "Right in front of me," she said.

"Aw, no.. you're just being kind. I've done a lot of bad things."

"You've done a lot of _human_ things. I wouldn't necessarily call them _all_ bad."

A guilty flush crept across Ted's cheeks. "I prevented a child from going to Lourdes."

Marian gave a tiny roll of her eyes. "Lourdes is overrated. Some people believe it, some don't. Sometimes it's the luck of the draw. I've been there many times."

Ted blinked. "I always thought so too, but I could _never_ say it out loud."

"Probably best that you don't," Marian agreed, smiling at him over their shared secret.

"There are many things I don't understand, and many things I wish I hadn't done," Ted admitted. "But deep down, I just want to be a better man. Somebody I'd be proud of if I were their father. Or their mother," he added hastily, in case Marian thought he was sexist as well as racist.

"Sounds like you've taken the first steps already."

"If only they weren't all in the wrong direction." Ted gestured backwards with his thumb and gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle.

He became aware of a ticking clock. It was a gentle sound, unlike the harsh timepiece in the bric-a-brac shop that had made him feel trapped. He suddenly felt sleepy, unburdened of his troubles, and soothed by Marian's comforting presence.

"Do you have faith?" Her voice was like syrup, warm and sweet.

"Just about," he said wryly.

"Hold onto it," she advised. "It's all you'll ever need."

Ted's eyes grew heavier and heavier. He tried not to fall asleep but Marian began to blur in front of him and soon he was snoring away like Father Jack, deep in slumber.

Some time later, he didn't know how long, he was woken up by the guest house landlord shaking him by the shoulder.

"Wake up, Father. It'll soon be time for dinner. I have to get the lounge ready."

Ted shook his head and blinked. He put his hand over his mouth to stifle a giant yawn. The sun was low in the sky and the armchair in front of him was empty. Even her book was gone from the little table.

"Oh no," he said forlornly. "I fell asleep on her."

"On who, Father?"

"On the lady that was here. One of the other guests. Her name is Marian. We were talking."

The landlord looked puzzled. "The only other guests in the hotel are two elderly couples and a single gentleman."

"But she was definitely here!"

"Well, maybe she came in for a sit down. We're open to all- we have a few regulars who come in for a pint at the bar. I'm sure you'll bump into her again."

The landlord picked up Ted's plate with the dried remains of his cheese sandwich and left the room. Ted struggled to his feet, easing the kinks out of his back. All the while he stared at Marian's vacated chair, wondering if he'd actually dreamed the whole scenario.

It wasn't until he was back upstairs in his room that he began to wonder. Her calming presence. Her acceptance of his story as the truth and her beautiful smile when she reassured him that he wasn't a bad person. She had been uncannily easy to talk to. It was as though she had been there only for him. Had been _waiting_ for him.

And finally, her name. Marian. Like the Marian apparitions of Lourdes. She did say she'd been there many times.

Ted gasped. Surely not. Surely she couldn't be... surely she wasn't...

Surely he hadn't just spilled his guts to The Virgin Mary!


	6. Chapter 6

Mrs. Doyle and Dougal huddled in front of Jack's stained and filthy chair. "Father Hackett," whispered Mrs. Doyle, "We think Father O'Dowd is worshipping the _Dark Lord_!"

Father Jack sat bolt upright as though a thousand volts had been shot up his arse as Dougal said in a reprimanding tone, "Come on now, Mrs. Doyle. Darth Vader doesn't exist. Look, I'll show you on the chart."

Mrs. Doyle threw Dougal a look of frustration. "No, no... not 'Darth Vader', whoever _he_ might be. THE Dark Lord himself! S.. S.. S.. " Like the word 'coffee', the housekeeper couldn't bring herself to say it.

"Sauron?"

"NO! The feller down there with the horns!" Mrs. Doyle pointed at the floor, then put two fingers up on either side of her head.

Dougal remained puzzled until Father Jack muttered, "Say- _tunnnn_ ," in the most unworldly growl ever. Mrs. Doyle whimpered and quickly crossed herself.

"The feller with the horns? Is he Satan?"

There was an ominous rumble of thunder from outside. Mrs. Doyle nodded, her face a picture of misery.

Dougal shook his head glumly. "I _knew_ the upside down crucifix was a bad sign."

"It's a very bad sign," said Mrs. Doyle. "Very, very, very, _very_ bad. Worse than bad. Dreadful. Awful!"

"' _The end of all things is at hand_ '," rasped Jack.

Dougal blew out a puff of breath. "I don't like the sound of that. God I wish Ted was here to save us."

There was a creaking of floorboards above their heads, and then slow footsteps sounded on the stairs. Mrs. Doyle flew into a panic.

"He's coming! Quick, everybody back to normal!"

Father O'Dowd entered the living room to find Mrs. Doyle gaily haring about the place with a duster, Father Hackett in a sort of rigid zombie-like pose staring blissfully into thin air, and Father McGuire sitting at the dining table playing Buckaroo with an idiotic grin on his face.

Mrs. Doyle approached the tall priest, dusting around picture frames, the television set, the coffee table, Father Jack's chair and even on the top of his head. "Is everything all right, Father?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Doyle. And may I say, it's nice to see a bit of industry about the place. Did Father McGuire pass on my apology?"

"He did, so. Apology accepted." Mrs. Doyle feigned sincerity with a huge smile and began dusting the bookshelf.

"Well, in that case, I don't mind telling you that I am absolutely _ravenous_." O'Dowd clapped his hands together and smacked his lips. "Praying to Our Lord and Master always leaves me very hungry indeed. I don't suppose you could fix me a nice, thick, juicy steak?"

Mrs. Doyle paused with her duster in mid dust. "A steak?"

"Yes. Rare, mind... I want to hear its last moo echoing round the field as I take the first, deliciously bloody bite." O'Dowd chuckled, revealing a row of teeth perfectly designed for tearing into flesh.

Mrs. Doyle exchanged a nervous glance with Dougal.

"That won't be a problem, Mrs. Doyle- will it?"

"Nuh-no, not at all," the housekeeper stammered. "A nice, thick, juicy steak coming right up!"

"Splendid. I shall go and freshen up. Please call me when it's ready."

Mrs. Doyle skittered to the kitchen. O'Dowd was just about to leave the room when his gimlet eye fell on Dougal.

"And what little game are we playing here?"

"Buckaroo," said Dougal, his cheeks flushing.

"Ah yes. I think I played that when I was five." O'Dowd approached the table, gliding like a dark shadow. Dougal gulped nervously and pushed himself back in his chair. O'Dowd picked up a little plastic saddlebag and dropped it onto the plastic mule. Dougal jumped six inches in the air as the mule bucked and all the pieces went clattering across the table and onto the floor.

O'Dowd leaned towards the young priest and grinned rakishly. "I win," he purred.

"No, you've lost," said Dougal, trying his best to appear nonchalant. "If the donkey bucks you've lost."

O'Dowd straightened. "We'll see, Father McGuire. We'll see."

He strode to the door, looked back just once, then disappeared upstairs again. The moment he was out of sight, Mrs. Doyle came out of the kitchen. She grabbed Dougal and pulled him across to the telephone. They found Bishop Brennan's number scrawled in a notepad, surrounded by doodles. There were intricate little drawings of gallows, faces with their tongues stuck out, and little matchstick men kicking each other up the arse.

Dougal sighed. "I miss Ted."

"Go on, go on, dial the number. I'll keep a lookout."

Dougal, his tongue poking out, dialled the number as carefully as Ted had taught him. It took a lot of concentration. By the time the ringing tone began, he was so exhausted he had to sit down.

"Yes? What is it?!" Bishop Brennan's impatient bark surprised Dougal back onto his feet. The priest could hear strange sounds behind the Bishop, like water splashing and girls giggling. He supposed there must be a crossed line somewhere.

"Len! It's Dougal!"

Mrs. Doyle rolled her eyes and grimaced.

"Is that you, ye little Craggy Island bollox?"

"It is," said Dougal with a hint of pride.

Bishop Brennan growled furiously down the phone. "This had better be good, McGuire."

Not one for small talk, Dougal got straight down to business. "Len, you've sent us a vampire!"

Mrs. Doyle flapped her hands to get the young priest's attention. "No, no! A _Satanist_!" She crossed herself several times as soon as the word left her lips.

"Oh,right. A vampire Satanist," Dougal corrected.

There was a very long pause. Even the giggling girls went quiet.

"A vampire Satanist," said the Bishop at last, in a tone that was unnervingly calm. "A vampire. Satanist." Water began splashing again. Bishop Brennan began to chuckle. A girl giggled, then another. The Bishop laughed harder. Soon he was guffawing so loudly that Dougal had to hold the phone away from his ear. Mrs. Doyle's thin shoulders slumped when she too, heard the laughter.

"A vampire Satanist! I've heard it all now!"

"No, you haven't heard it all now," Dougal protested. "He prays with an upside down cross and wants a bloody big steak for his tea."

The Bishop thundered down the phone. "You watch your language when you're speaking to your superior! I'll have you know Father O'Dowd came highly recommended!"

"By who? The feller downstairs with the horns?" Dougal beamed at Mrs. Doyle, who slumped even further.

Brennan took a deep breath. "You listen to me, ye little idgit. I see you're still under Crilly's influence, but don't for one minute think you can make a fool of me. You will treat Father O'Dowd with respect, or you will have myself, the Archbishop, and several Cardinals to contend with. Now let me get back to my work!" There was more splashing and giggling, and even some Latino music, then Bishop Brennan slammed the phone down.

"That went well," said Dougal, carefully putting the receiver into its cradle as Ted had shown him, albeit the wrong way round.

"No it went horribly," Mrs. Doyle whimpered. "What are we going to do now?"

"Have we got any steak?"

Mrs. Doyle nodded. "There's a few left over from Father Crilly's American phase."

"Ah yes, when we all ate hot dogs for breakfast for an entire week."

"They're not as fresh as they could be, but if I cut the green bits off the side they'll be all right."

"What about poison? Do we have any poison?"

Mrs. Doyle shook her head. "It's the one thing I'm always forgetting to buy."

"I thought that was washing up liquid?"

"Oh, yes. You're right. Washing up liquid." Mrs. Doyle giggled. "Poison. Whatever next?"

"Oh well, at least we can give him his tea." Dougal began pacing again, trying to look studious, like Sherlock Holmes. "What would Ted do... what would Ted do... "

* * *

Ted was lying flat on his back on the bed with his arms out like the cross. He kept telling himself he was being ridiculous. Marian was flesh and blood- no more the Virgin Mary than he was Elvis Presley. But still he couldn't shake the feeling that something miraculous had happened. She had been too kind and understanding for a mere mortal. She had glowed as though lit from within. She had seized on the bit of faith he had left and used it to manifest herself. At least, that's what he preferred to think.

Besides, no ordinary woman would have listened to him babbling on the way he was without interrupting at least once.

He started to smile. So the Blessed Virgin herself had deigned to pay him a visit. She had thought him worthy enough for her attention, even with all his shortcomings. She must have had a reason. She must have thought he was worth saving.

A familiar tune came into his head and his toes began to tap. He hadn't thought of it for a while, but it seemed suited for this momentous occasion. He began humming, then singing, then he got to his feet and began dancing like he'd never danced before.

 _Who's the cat that won't cop out when there's danger all about?_

 ** _Shaft!_**

(Shaft- Written by Isaac Hayes • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group)


	7. Chapter 7

Dougal was getting ready for bed.

It had been an odd evening; Mrs Doyle spent fifteen minutes pounding a steak until you could just about call it tender and then added a splash of juice from a tray of minced beef that she had bought a little more recently than last year. Even so, Father O'Dowd had proclaimed it 'delicious', just as he had proclaimed the dead spider coffee to be delicious. All that fuss he made about 'last moos' and everything. Perhaps vampire Satanists didn't have taste buds.

O'Dowd's mere presence in the room was enough to unsettle Dougal. But Mrs. Doyle let him stay up late to watch his Toy Story video and he felt a lot better now. Buzz and Woody always cheered him up. He glanced at Ted's empty bed as he pulled on his 'It's a Priest Thing You Wouldn't Understand' t-shirt and tucked it into his plaid pyjama bottoms.

He wondered where Ted was right now. He hoped his best friend wasn't enjoying himself so much that he'd never want to come home. Dougal wasn't the sharpest tool in the box but he knew that Ted had been restless and dissatisfied for a long time, and had pinned all his hopes on America. You couldn't have such a huge disappointment in life and get over it quickly. Ted would be away looking for thrills and excitement. He'd be going to funfairs and circuses and birthday parties and the Zoo and having all kinds of shenanigans. He'd be eating crisps like a mad eejit and watching sci fi movies and telling all his new friends how glad he was to be off Craggy Island because it was so boring and nothing ever happened.

Dougal pulled back the blankets and almost got into bed. At the last minute he changed his mind and sat down on the edge of Ted's bed. It was a different bed to the one Ted had before, because they'd had to buy all new furniture again. But it was in the same place, in the same room, and it felt the same, and even- Dougal pressed one of the pillows to his face, _smelled_ the same. Like aftershave and pontifical incense. A bit like the inside of a church cupboard.

Suddenly Dougal felt sad, a sadness even Buzz Lightyear couldn't fix. He replaced the pillow and lay back on it, stretching himself out in a star shape to reach as many points of the bed as possible. Maybe the essence of Ted would soak into him and make him smart. Ted was smart all right- the smartest man Dougal knew. If only he were here now.

Of course if Ted were here now, then Father O'Dowd wouldn't be here at all. Dougal's mood changed. Now he was angry at Ted. He clenched his fists and pouted at the ceiling.

"This is all your fault Ted, you big fool!"

"Interesting. What, pray tell, is all Ted's fault?"

Dougal nearly lifted six inches off the bed. At first he thought he'd gone mad and was hearing voices. Then he realised O'Dowd was in the room and he hadn't even heard the man come in. His heart thudded, blood pounding in his ears. Immediately he scurried back to his own bed and pulled the covers up to his chin.

"Wh-why are you in m-me and T-Ted's room?" He fought hard to keep his voice steady, without much success.

O'Dowd advanced towards Dougal, who shrank back even further. The tall priest was wearing black satin pyjamas, the furthest from very very very very very very _very_ dark blue that Dougal had ever seen. They shimmered like his hair. He was like a pool of oil slithering along, consuming everything in its path.

"I've decided not to sleep in the guest room after all. It is to be used for prayer only. I'm certainly not going to sleep in the same room as that snoring drunkard, Hackett, or downstairs with the hired help, even if she makes the finest steak I've ever eaten. No, I've decided I am going to sleep in here, with you." O'Dowd smiled wolfishly and pretended to yawn and stretch.

"Why me?" It came out like a desperate, high pitched squeak.

"Because I like you, McGuire. And I'd like to get to know you better."

Dougal's already wide eyes turned into saucers, the pale blue irises completely surrounded by white.

"I- I can tell you all about myself," he stammered. "It'll only take a minute. Then you can go back to your own room." He imagined O'Dowd hanging upside down from the rail inside the wardrobe like a bat.

O'Dowd pulled back the blanket on Ted's bed and slid between the sheets. The sheets didn't even rustle.

"Don't be modest, McGuire. You fascinate me. Your youth, your softness, your pale, almost translucent skin. Your innocence and naïveté... "

"What's nifety?"

O'Dowd's catlike eyes grew narrower. "Ni-eeveh-tee. It means lack of sophistication, experience, or worldliness. You are a newborn lamb, McGuire. Frolicking in the field without a care in the world."

"Oh, right," said Dougal. "Like the Lamb of God." He felt pleased making a religious reference because he normally wasn't bothered about stuff like that.

O'Dowd looked delighted. " _Exactly_ like the Lamb of God," he purred in agreement. " _Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi. '_ Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world'."

"Er.. Our Father who art in Heaven, Harold be thy name."

"Go on," said O'Dowd, expectantly.

Dougal's confusion returned- not that it had gone very far. "Ted usually helps me with the rest."

"This Ted sounds a wily fellow."

"Ah, he's grand." All of Dougal's conflicting feelings went away as he began to talk about Ted. "He's the best priest ever. In fact he loves being a priest so much that he never stops being one."

"Once a priest, always a priest," said O'Dowd with a cool smile. "You're a priest too, are you not?"

"Aye but I'm not as good as Ted. I tend to get things wrong, you know. They won't let me do funerals any more because of all the accidents and I always forget the words at Mass. It's weird, but- I don't feel God the same way as Ted."

"Interesting. Please elucidate." O'Dowd's eyes glittered in the lamp light. "Explain," he added, when Dougal's face went blank.

"Well, if God is supposed to be all mighty and all knowing and all seeing, then why doesn't He do more to help people? Like, if He saw someone drowning in a pond, would a big arm come down out of the sky and pull them out? Or if a bus full of old ladies drove off a cliff. Or if a big hole opened up and swallowed a children's hospital. Or if snakes got loose from the Zoo and started biting people all over the place, or a herd of elephants stampeded through a poor African village. Or if there was a terrible wind that blew away a load of houses or if a lorry turned over on the motorway and skidded into a line of cars and they all exploded and people ran around on fire screaming, "Help me Oh God help me.. " Would God even help? Or would He just sit there and wait for the fire brigade and the ambulances like everyone else?"

"Perhaps He would make it rain."

"Even if it was in the summer? In a drought? During a hosepipe ban? Without a cloud in the sky?"

"He made it rain for forty days and forty nights, didn't He?"

"Only because He wanted to kill everyone."

O'Dowd chuckled. "You do make God seem rather cruel."

"Is He not though? Smiting everyone and turning them into pillars of salt. You can't even look at another god because He gets mad jealous and storms off in a huff and you have to go and talk to Him or He sulks for weeks. It's like a full time job."

"Being a priest _is_ a full time job."

Dougal folded his arms and scowled. "Achh. I wish I could have a nervous breakdown like Ted and go on holiday."

O'Dowd shook his head, his hair gleaming like raven's wings. "Now now, McGuire. You mustn't allow Ted's weaknesses to rub off on you. You're a fine young man and it's good to ask questions. There's nothing worse than blind faith- that's why I pray so often. I am constantly battling with the forces of good and evil. I can't let my guard down for a second."

"So- you believe in Heaven and Hell and Everlasting Life and all that b... Bible stuff?" Dougal stopped himself from saying 'bollocks' just in time.

"Of course I do. And so should you. Every single word in that Book is the gospel Truth. We may not agree with all of it, but we can't dispute it's veracity. The Lord is our Shepherd, and we are shepherds of our own little flocks- our congregations. Be a leader, McGuire. Not a follower. Be a wolf, not a sheep."

Dougal studied the man's lean face and sharp features. He looked even more like Dracula in the gloom. Dougal didn't want to go to sleep in case he fluttered over in the night and sank his fangs into Dougal's neck.

"I can see the wheels turning in your head," O'Dowd said with his odd smirk. "You're thinking, 'how do I change who I am'? But I'm not asking you to change. I'm asking you to be the man you were born to be."

 _No, I was thinking about you drinking all my blood and turning me into a vampire meself_ , thought Dougal. _Although that might be pretty cool because then I could live forever. But then I couldn't go out in daylight. But I could turn into a bat and fly. But bats aren't all that great. And I'd have to drink blood. I'd have to bite poor Mrs. Doyle. And then Mrs. Doyle would be a vampire. And then we'd have to bite Jack, except his blood might taste like Toilet Duck which would be horrible._

O'Dowd raised his voice, snapping Dougal out of his meanderings.

"Are you listening to me, McGuire? I said, "I want you to pray with me tomorrow."

"Oh. Right. Before lunch or after? Only me and Ted don't normally get up before 11."

O'Dowd reached for the alarm clock and began to alter the settings. "All of that is about to change," he purred. "You and I are going to be up at 7. Breakfast at 7:30, and at 8 we shall commence our Day of Prayer. I am sure- no, I am certain, that you shall find it _very_ enlightening."

Dougal's mouth fell open in protest. "Seven? Sure, God doesn't mind what time we get up as long as we're good for the rest of the day!"

O'Dowd placed the clock back on the night stand. "Don't whine. It's set for seven. And if you're not up, I will get you up. It's time for a bit of discipline in this house!"

The saturnine priest reached up inside the lampshade and clicked off the light. The bedroom was plunged into darkness save for a thin sliver of paler darkness at the window. Dougal pushed himself up against the wall and huddled into his blankets. He pulled a pillow over his head and shoulders and held it in place with his arm.

Woody, Buzz and Ted might not be here to save him, but no vampire priest was going to bite him in the neck if he could help it.


	8. Chapter 8

While Dougal lay awake trying to protect himself from vampires and Satanists, Ted was having the best sleep of his life. No giant peanuts chasing him this time! He was romping through meadows with the contestants of The Lovely Girls competition who appeared in his dream as cherubim while Mother Mary beamed at him from above, lighting the sky with her benevolent smile. Orphans frolicked, their limbs healed, their lungs clear, their skin suffused with colour. They hugged him and thanked him for taking them to Lourdes while tears of gratitude spilled down their innocent little faces. Flowers bloomed everywhere, of the most extraordinary vibrancy- purples to dazzle the eyes and yellows to lift the heart, brilliant splashes of red to signify the Blood of Christ and white for purity. There were animals too. Over the hills they came, straight from Noah's Ark, all the birds of the air and all the beasts of the land and all the fish of the sea, somehow swimming without water. And in the middle of all this wonder, like the hub of a wheel, was Father Ted Crilly himself.

Soon a horse appeared, a lovely horse. A moment later Dougal materialised out of thin air, his face shining like the sun. Ted and Dougal started singing My Lovely Horse, and this time there was no rude sax solo, just endless lines of 'where are you going, with your fetlocks blowing in the wind' until all the animals and the cherubs and orphans and even Mary were singing along. And Ted felt great. It was great being a priest. It was the best thing in the world. He had the ability to comfort people and make them happy- and if people were happy the world was a better place.

In the middle of all this heavenly wonder, Dougal turned towards him, singing his heart out. "I want to shower you with sugar lumps, and ride you over fences... "

"Polish your hooves every single day, and bring you to the horse dentist," Ted sang back, lustily.

"Ah, Ted, you're the greatest," Dougal declared. "You're my very best friend in all the world. Why, I wouldn't have _anyone_ if it wasn't for you."

Ted's heart swelled with affection, even in his dream. He realised then that he _loved_ Dougal with a proper, true, unconditional type of love, like a father's love for a son, or a brother's love for another brother, or a boy's love for a puppy. It was a strong, fierce, protective, _soulmate_ sort of love. And a grateful love- that someone as pure and true as Dougal should look up to him, for whatever reasons of his own, even though he hardly deserved such devotion.

Ted felt the overwhelming urge to tell Dougal that he loved him, that he would even take ten gallons of sewage in the face for him. But just as he opened his mouth, Dougal's eyes went wide and he was sucked backwards at a violent speed into a shimmering vortex that closed around him like a thundery whirlpool until he was the size of a dot and then gone.

Small, and far away.

Ted awoke with a start and the name 'Dougal' on his lips. Exhausted from dancing, he had fallen asleep fully clothed with the bed still made and curtains open. The dawn sky was dark grey with slices of red and orange. More squalls were brewing. The sky was exceptionally dark over where he assumed Craggy Island might be.

The joy of the first part of his dream was still with him, but Dougal's fate at the end had worried him. He sat up and raked his fingers through his hair. Ah, it was probably nothing- dreams were weird like that.

But if he dismissed the last part of his dream as 'nothing', then what about the rest of it? The cherubs and the orphans, Mary and the animals and the sense that he, Father Ted Crilly, was at the centre of it all like a powerful force, one of God's own Messengers? He certainly didn't want to dismiss _that_ bit.

With plenty on his mind, Ted showered and shaved and put on his last spare set of priest's clothes. He combed his hair in the mirror, studied his features for any telltale signs of renewed Holiness. But he looked exactly the same as always- sharp nosed and rather cynical under that mad mop of grey/white hair.

It was only _inside_ that he felt different.

Sitting at a table by the window in the breakfast room, Ted's thoughts returned to Dougal. One minute they had been having a whale of a time (and even a whale had joined in) singing My Lovely Horse and galloping round the fields. The next minute, Dougal was gone, pulled away by an unseen hand. But what on Earth could remove a man from such a blissful, perfect scene? What had the power to interrupt Paradise?

The waitress arrived to pour the tea. Ted barely noticed her as his thoughts took a turn for the worse. The two other couples in the room were chatting away but Ted's ears no longer heard them. He picked up a triangular slice of toast and chewed on the corner while gazing idly out of the window hoping for answers.

And then he saw her. Marian, down by the promenade, standing at the rail.

Ted jumped up with such force that the table rocked up on two legs and the waitress was thrown backwards, spilling tea all over the tablecloth. She shouted at him, he garbled an apology as he flew out of the room, sprinted down the hallway with its worn out carpet, burst through the front door and leaped down the concrete steps.

"Steady on, Father!" Marian's voice was laced with amusement as Ted all but skidded to a halt in front of her, puffing and out of breath.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared right into her hazel gold eyes.

"You're her, aren't you? You're _her_!"

"Who?" she asked, suppressing a laugh.

"Mary! You know, _the_ Mary! Mother of God!" He didn't want to call her a virgin, but then again he didn't want to call her a non-virgin either.

"Oh, Father! You flatter me! What on earth brought you to that conclusion?"

"Don't ask me how or why, but I just _know_ it. You can deny it all you want, but _I_ know who you are." Ted caught his breath and released her shoulders. "Sorry," he murmured, brushing down her coat. "I didn't mean to grab you, Our Lady."

"It's not often I get roughed up by a priest. I shall treasure this moment forever."

Ted blushed furiously. "Yes, well. I saw you through the window and I got a bit excited. Not- not like _that_... "

Oh Lord, it was Polly Clarke all over again. Suddenly Ted laughed, an embarrassed bark that burst out of him and was flung away on the wind. Marian joined in, and soon they were cackling like two lunatics and the sun was barely up.

"I was only taking a morning stroll along the prom. Nothing more than that!" Marian wiped tears from her eyes and composed herself.

"God Almighty I feel like a big eejit," said Ted. "But I just- I _needed_ to see you, and there you were. I mean, here you are. I have questions. Last night I had the most incredible dream, it was too vivid not to be real. And you were there. In your true form. You were up in the sky shining down on me and everything was perfect and beautiful. There were cherubs and animals and my friend, Father Dougal who I told you about, not all there but nice enough, anyway, everything was grand until the end, when it got dark and Dougal disappeared- got sucked away by some strange force. I can't shake the feeling that something bad has happened."

Marian said nothing, but Ted noticed a sudden light in her eyes that she wasn't quick enough to conceal. Or perhaps didn't _want_ to conceal.

"Are you asking me to confirm your feelings?" she asked, finally.

"Yes, yes I am."

"You still don't trust yourself?"

"No, no I don't! I mean, I should, but... a lifetime of bad habits doesn't just go away after one dream!"

"Why not?"

" _Because_! That's why not!" He felt himself becoming wild eyed, and Marian reached out gently to put her hand on his arm.

"Don't fight against yourself," she advised. "You keep pushing and pulling. Just have _faith_."

"I have faith, for God's sake- "

"Then _use it_!"

Ted threw his arms in the air. "Please! Just tell me whether my friend is in trouble!"

"I can't hold your hand forever," she said, her voice like the whispering wind.

Ted tightened like a coiled spring. "Right, that's it. My heart is telling me that Dougal _is_ in trouble and I need to get back to Craggy Island _ay ess ay pee_."

Without so much as a 'goodbye, it was nice meeting you', Ted sprinted back across the road, incurring the wrath of one lone driver in a car that was tootling along at snail's pace. At the top of the hotel steps he had a good mind to shout 'thanks for your help' sarcastically at her, but when he turned around to face her, he noticed with a shock that she was hovering. Not so noticeably as to frighten cats, but just six inches or so off the pavement. The words died in his throat as her arms moved out towards him, palms facing upwards.

As Ted stood gaping in speechless wonder, she winked at him. And then she was gone in one blinding flash of light that anyone would have mistaken for lightning on the horizon. Ted crossed himself half a dozen times and threw himself back into the hotel, almost colliding with the same waitress as she came out of the breakfast room with a stack of dirty dishes.

"Are ye tryin' to kill me?" she cried, but Ted was already halfway up the stairs.

"Hold on Dougal, I'm on my way," he shouted, rushing to his room to get packed.

* * *

'My Lovely Horse' by the Divine Comedy, lyrics by Neil Hannan


	9. Chapter 9

If there was one thing Dougal hated more than waking up at 7am, it was waking up at 6.30am. But apparently the 'vampire priest' couldn't wait to get started on his unwordly misdeeds. Dougal was roused from a lively Blockbusters dream in the middle of asking for "a P, please, Bob", by the cold feel of someone's fingers on his cheek. His foggy mind brought forward his mother getting him up for school and he wriggled like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

A moment later those same fingers pinched his earlobe, hard. He yelped with the pain and sat bolt upright. Father O'Dowd was standing fully dressed beside his bed, looking down on him as a butcher might look on a pig.

"Aah! Ye scared the life out of me!" Dougal's accent became stronger when he was stressed, exited or anxious. Which was quite often.

O'Dowd chuckled softly. "I heard you needed to urinate, and I didn't want you to wet the bed."

"What? No! When did I... how did you... anyway, what's 'urinate'?"

"Visit the little boys' room. Use the bathroom. Have a tinkle." O'Dowd leaned down and crowded Dougal's space before whispering, " _Piss._ "

Dougal gulped. He must have been sleep talking again. But he wasn't going to spoil the memory of a great dream by explaining to the tall priest what he'd meant. He pulled the sheet up to his eyes and stared at O'Dowd like a crocodile with most of its head underwater. Or perhaps a drowning kitten was more apt.

O'Dowd reached for the sheet, but Dougal only clutched it tighter. The tall priest huffed with exasperation.

"Get up, McGuire."

"Go away," Dougal mumbled.

"Good Lord, anyone would think you were afraid of praying."

"Ted never wakes me up at the crack of dawn just to go praying."

"But I'm not Ted. I'm a _real_ priest."

Dougal was having none of that.

"Ted's a real priest!"

"Not by the sounds of it. Sleeping in 'til 11, stealing money from children, ah, you didn't think I knew about that, did you? Spending a child's money to go to the city of sin, and you're worried about _me_?"

"He only went to Las Vegas. I hear it's great there. Anyway, Ted doesn't worship S- " Dougal clamped his mouth firmly shut, but too late. The tall priest's curiosity was piqued.

"Please finish what you were about to say."

"Steak," said Dougal, surprised by his sudden burst of quick-wittedness. "Ted doesn't worship steak. He prefers sausages."

O'Dowd smiled wolfishly. "Now you're making me hungry. Get up right now, and let's go down for breakfast." He went to the foot of the bed and, with the flair of a master magician, whipped all of the bedclothes off, exposing Dougal and his pyjamas and his curled up toes for all the world to see.

"That's better," he said, his eyes raking over the young priest in a most uncomfortable way.

Dougal rolled over and scuttled off the bed.

"At least do me a favour and let me get dressed on my own."

"Are you capable of it? Don't you need help with buttons and the like? Very well, you have ten minutes to wash and dress. If you're not downstairs by then, I shall come and get you myself."

O'Dowd stalked out of the room and Dougal let out the breath he'd been holding. He glanced all around the room looking for weapons. It's a shame he and Ted had never robbed a bank because then he'd have a gun. He did have his tennis racket and his air guitar. He began pulling at his pyjamas, wondering how long it would take to knot all of the bed sheets together and escape out of the window.

* * *

The taxi was taking far too long to get to the ferry terminal. Ted kept pushing at the headrest of the passenger seat in front of him, as if it would make the car go faster.

"Can you speed up a bit?"

The driver, a middle aged man who looked suspiciously like the man who had ripped him off in the fish shop, shook his head.

"You're encouraging me to drive recklessly now?"

Ted scanned the surrounding fields and the empty road in front of them. There were no pedestrians and traffic was at zero.

"No, I'm just asking if you can put your foot down a little. I don't want to miss the boat."

"Ye'll miss it if we crash," the driver argued.

The speedometer needle stuck resolutely at 40kph* and Ted rolled his eyes in frustration.

The driver fished out a packet of cigarettes and extracted one with his mouth. Then he fished for a lighter. The car went even slower while he dug around in each of his pockets. Finally he located an old Zippo. The cigarette sparked up on the fifth try and the driver smoked it with one hand on the wheel and the other waving out of the window. The radio was on but it wasn't tuned properly so there were intermittent bursts of singing and then streams of infuriating crackle. A bird stood in the road about fifty yards away and the car decreased its speed even more. All the while this was going on, Ted seethed inside like Mt. Vesuvius, and finally he exploded.

"God Almighty, do you charge by the hour?"

The driver's eyes narrowed in the rear view mirror. "I will if ye don't shut up," he growled.

Ted sank down in the back seat. Anything he said now would just make this idgit drive even slower. He hugged his holdall like a comforter and prayed desperately for a bit of divine intervention. "Mother Mary, if I ever needed you, I need you now," he muttered under his breath.

Two minutes later, he got it.

The taxi driver spasmed suddenly and slammed on the brakes. Ted jolted forward, but they hadn't been going that fast so his forehead merely bumped gently on the headrest.

"What the feck is it now?" the priest demanded.

"I need the feckin' toilet, that's what!"

The driver pushed his door open and stumbled outside, bent double with what Ted's mother used to call 'poo pains'. The minute he was out of the car, Ted scrambled over the front seats and into the driver's seat. "YES!" he cried, pumping the air with his left arm while slamming shut the door with his right.

The driver gaped from the little ditch beyond the grass verge where he squatted. "Hey! What the feck are ye doin'?"

Ted gunned the engine. "I'm off to catch my ferry," he said with a devilish grin. "Today's ferry, not next week's one!"

"Ye can't steal my car just because you're a priest!"

"Really? Watch me."

And with that, the ancient Ford Cortina peeled away down the road, leaving the driver choking in a cloud of exhaust with his trousers round his ankles and diarrhea dribbling down his legs.

Ted tuned the radio properly and the first song that came on was John Travolta singing 'Greased Lightnin''. Ted turned it up full volume and put his foot down to the floor.

"God Bless the power of prayer!" he yelled, screaming down the road like Jackie Stewart.

* * *

Dougal sat sullenly at the breakfast table watching O'Dowd shovel food into his ghastly, cavernous mouth. His head throbbed and the grazes on his palms stung like billy-o and bled onto his napkin.

"Whatever were you doing, McGuire? Climbing out of the window like that?"

Dougal said nothing. He pushed a mushroom around his plate, glancing occasionally at Mrs. Doyle, who kept coming out of the kitchen with more mountains of meat for the ever-hungry vampire priest.

"Next time, use a reef knot," O'Dowd suggested. "Those sheets weren't even held together by a prayer. Unless you prayed to kill yourself, that is."

Dougal winced at the all too recent memory of plummeting out of the bedroom window.

"Well, it was worth a try," he said, breaking his petulant silence.

"God only knows you could have gone down the stairs like a regular person and used the front door. Or did you think I was standing sentry?"

"It wasn't anything to do with you," Dougal fibbed, keeping two fingers crossed behind his back. "I- I saw a fillum about the war. This fella escaped out of a window and I just wanted to try it myself."

Mrs. Doyle heaped pork chops onto O'Dowd's plate.

"Father McGuire is always copying the fillums," she said helpfully. "Although the less said about 'Thunderpants', the better."

Dougal blushed. Mrs. Doyle had just made that up, but he couldn't deny it because he didn't want O'Dowd thinking he was frightened of him.

"Mrs. Doyle! Don't you have things to do in the kitchen?" he spluttered, trying his best to sound like Ted.

Mrs. Doyle went away tittering, and Dougal went back to pushing food around his plate.

"You know, McGuire, I ought to start calling you Gene Kelly, since you're making such a song and dance about praying."

Dougal looked up. "Are ye still going to make me pray even though I've just had an accident? I should go to the hospital or something. I might be seriously injured."

"I doubt it," said O'Dowd. "You landed on your head."

The tall priest finished eating at last and dabbed at his lips as daintily as any high class Victorian lady. This action was totally at odds with the way he'd devoured four helpings of meat like a bear coming out of hibernation after the worst winter in ten thousand years.

"Right. Time to get started. come along, McGuire. No more shilly shallying. We shall pray for your good health. Yes- the healing power of prayer will have you right as rain in no time."

Speaking of rain, the thunderstorm from yesterday was rolling back over the hills. Dougal blinked at a flash of lightning on the horizon.

"God, if you're out there, send help fast," he muttered, following the tall priest out of the room.

* * *

The Cortina screeched to a halt at the ferry terminal and Ted jumped out, holdall in hand. There was a bit of a crowd- folks waiting for a sightseeing trip, tourists milling aimlessly about. He scanned the board quickly for information about ferries to the outer islands. Sweat broke out on his brow as he saw that the ferry to Craggy Island was departing in two minutes.

He ran like the wind out of the terminal building and promptly collided with a family of obese Americans. They barely moved as Ted rebounded like a WWF wrestler.

"Gee! It's a real-life Irish priest!" The father of the family exclaimed. "Get in closer for a photo, kids!"

Ted waved his arms, loudly protesting. "No! Wait, I have a boat to catch!"

But it was useless. The fat man pushed his even fatter wife and two children against Ted and had to take at least fifteen steps backwards to fit them all into the frame. He flapped his hand, making Billy stand in front of Jenny and then having Belinda put her hand on Billy's shoulder and then he asked Ted to put his arms round both children's shoulders.

Ted was 500% done with tact.

"I'd need arms as long as an orang utan's for that!" he shouted.

"Oh, you're so funny!" the wife, Belinda, squealed. "We're not fat. We're just big boned! Aren't we, kids?"

"When are we going to McDonalds?" Billy whined.

"Gotta love the 'Oirish' sense of humour!" the husband chortled.

As the fat man snapped away, Ted heard a ship's horn blare and his heart plummeted to his feet. The Craggy Island ferry was pulling away from the dock. He could see it, chugging along on the swelling sea.

Without him.

Plastering on a sickly smile for the last of the fat family's photos, Ted decided that he hated America now. Far from being depressed about it, he was glad to have that final unrealistic bubble burst at last.

He trudged back to the terminal with the sound of seagulls in his ears and stood under the board, looking for any boat that would bring him closer to home.

"Mary, I don't want to be a pest, but if you could just see me right one more time- ?"

And then he saw it.

Three lines down from the top, it read;

 **RUGGED ISLAND. GATE 2. DEPARTING 30 MINUTES.**

The two islands were close enough to hire a boat if he needed to, and there were fellas who made the trip several times a day and he was sure he could cadge a lift from one of them. After all, they couldn't deny a man of God. But still. Rugged Island. The home of his nemesis, Father Dick Byrne.

"Mary, with friends like you, who needs enemies?" he declared wryly, heading down to wait at Gate 2.

* * *

*40kph = 25mph


	10. Chapter 10

O'Dowd made Dougal sit in a chair in the corner while he lit his candle and prepared his prayer book and crucifix. The curtains were still closed from the day before and the air was beginning to smell decidedly fusty. Dougal decided he could cope with it for now. After all, Father Jack often smelled much, _much_ worse. Nevertheless, he thought it worth mentioning.

"Why does it have to be so dark?" he asked loudly.

O'Dowd's head turned slowly, like an iguana's. "Because, little man, the light must come to _us_."

"But it's right there," said Dougal, pointing at the shrouded window. "Open the curtains and you'll see it!"

O'Dowd smiled indulgently. "You don't understand, do you? Seeking the white light of salvation requires effort. It requires sweat and tears, and sometimes ... even _blood_."

Dougal gulped and went pale, although it was barely noticeable in his gloomy corner. "What do you mean, 'blood'?"

"Don't you worry yourself young padre," O'Dowd replied, smoothing the bedsheets around his book and crucifix. "I often speak figuratively. Much of the Holy Book is figurative, after all. However, certain spiritual beings are summoned by its words, as you will soon see."

"They'd get in easier if the window was open!" Dougal persisted.

O'Dowd tutted. "For the last time. The window stays shut and the curtains stay closed. There must be no contamination from outside. Everything we need is right here in this room."

"Everything we need for what? Summoning Satan?"

 _There_. It was out. He'd said it, and there was no going back. Trouble is, he hadn't intended to say it. Far from being a bright idea, or part of a cunning plan, it was just Dougal speaking without engaging his brain, as usual. This was _not_ what Ted would have done. Not at all!

Dougal gripped the seat of his chair as he waited for the tall priest's reaction. He fully expected to be set on fire or at least given an extreme wedgie.

O'Dowd drew himself upwards, silently unfurling like a slender reed. Soon he was standing at his full height before Dougal, who shrank down and craned his neck upwards in order to see the dour priest's angular face with the shadows dancing in and out of it.

"Satan, you say?" One eyebrow arched expectantly.

"Er, no. I meant Simon. That game, you know. 'Simon Says'. Simon Says, 'sit down Dougal and don't say another word'."

"It's too late to take it back now, McGuire."

"Not if Simon Says!"

O'Dowd began to chuckle. Soon he was laughing throatily. For some reason his laughter was even more frightening than his anger.

"You think I'm a Satanist, don't you?"

 _As the old saying goes,_ thought Dougal, _in for a penny, in for two pennies._

"No. I think you're a vampire. Mrs. Doyle thinks you're a Satanist."

O'Dowd grinned with glee. "And what about Father Hackett?"

"Jack just thinks you're a gobshite," Dougal clarified.

O'Dowd guffawed until there were tears in his eyes. "Oh, this is priceless! A vampire _and_ a Satanist! No wonder you and your friends were banished to this tiny island in the middle of nowhere! What vivid and outlandish imaginations you have!"

"You can't blame us," Dougal said defensively. "You're very weird."

"Why? Because I'm tall, dark and mysterious?"

"Because you like spider coffee and nearly raw meat and you think that when the horse bucks in Buckaroo it means you've won! You even sound like Dracula!"

O'Dowd wiped his eyes. "My dear Father McGuire. Had I known you were so tormented by your thoughts, I'd have reassured you much, much sooner."

"You mean, you're not... you're _not_ a vampire?"

O'Dowd shook his head, still shaking with mirth.

" _Or_ a Satanist?"

O'Dowd clutched his stomach and bent double. "No," he squeaked through ripples of laughter before returning to his full height. The candle flickered wildly as his dark head appeared to brush the ceiling even though the Parochial House had very high ceilings.

"I'm God," he said abruptly.

Now it was Dougal's turn to laugh. It spluttered out of him like a donkey sneezing while taking a drink. He was so taken aback by O'Dowd's claim that he forgot he was supposed to be scared.

" _No way_!"

"I am so! Heathens and unbelievers have laughed at me for the last time, McGuire. I plan to bring forth Lucifer himself so that I may defeat the Dark Prince and prove my Almighty Magnificence once and for all!" O'Dowd began pacing, raking his fingers through his hair. "Oh yes, I'll even have that cocky Len Brennan on his knees kissing my feet when he discovers who I really am!"

Dougal's brow furrowed, indicating that he was thinking. "So... you're definitely _not_ going to summon Satan then?"

The tall priest rolled his eyes. "Yes I am. Lucifer _is_ Satan."

"But you said you weren't a Satanist! Make up your mind!"

O'Dowd sighed loudly and impatiently. "Didn't you hear me, McGuire?! I _must_ summon Satan in order to _defeat_ him! To show the world the power of GOD!"

"And what do you need me for if you have all the power of God?"

O'Dowd loomed over Dougal, throwing the young priest into shadow.

"Because Lucifer is crafty," he whispered. "I need something to lure him out. He's very fond of soft, innocent, pure, untouched flesh. Just. Like. Yours." He prodded Dougal's chest three times for emphasis.

Dougal stared down at the clawlike finger poking into his tank top. "You're not God! You're mad," he wailed. "Just like everyone else who's ever been sent here! Mad as a kettle!"

"You're wrong!" O'Dowd spun around in the middle of the room and sent the candle flame dancing. "I am the Almighty! Those doctors don't know what they're talking about!" He grabbed his crucifix from the bed and held it up in both hands, aiming it at the ceiling. "Come forth, O Prince of Darkness! Come forth wretched lizard, and claim your prize!"

"I thought Satan lived down there," said Dougal, pointing at the floor.

"Shut up! I know what I'm doing!"

Dougal peered at the manic priest whose hair was now falling in long strands over his face. He wasn't a vampire, he wasn't a Satanist, but he was summoning Satan anyway because he thought he was God. How much more ridiculous was this day going to get?

* * *

Mrs. Doyle picked up the phone.

"I'm calling the police," she told Jack.

The crusty old priest jerked upright. "NO!" he shouted. "NOT THE FECKIN' POLICE!"

Mrs. Doyle sighed. Jack had thrown his brick in the direction of some nuns and even though it had fallen well short of them, they had seen fit to call the Garda. Jack had lasted five minute in the cells before the cops begged Father Crilly to take him back, but it had left the old priest with a lasting hatred of the Craggy Island federales.

"Not for _you,_ Father," she insisted. "To rescue Father McGuire from the clutches of evil!"

But Jack wasn't listening. He banged on the arms of his chair shouting about not being arrested until Mrs. Doyle could barely hear herself think. She riffled hurriedly through Ted's address book.

"All right, Father. There must be _someone_ we can call besides the police," she fretted.

Jack thumped his chair louder and louder. "NO POLICE! NO POLICE!"

Mrs. Doyle wished Jack would shut up. She was becoming more and more concerned by the odd banging and scraping noises coming from the guest room. It sounded like they were rearranging the furniture in there. She hoped they wouldn't move the bed and see that she'd only been vacuuming around it all these years.

She turned another page and her eyes fell on a number. it was surrounded by little doodles of daggers, hanging men, and swear words with lots of exclamation marks pressed so deep into the paper that they nearly went through the whole book and onto the table. Mrs. Doyle gulped as she read the name. Father Crilly would never forgive her, but it was worth a try.

Mrs. Doyle put the receiver to her ear and dialled the number for Father Dick Byrne.

* * *

Ted stood on the upper deck of the ferry straining his eyes towards the horizon. Normally he quite liked a bit of sailing, ' _a load of men in a boat floating around on the sea_ ' as Mrs. Doyle called it. But this was no self-indulgent Sunday jaunt on the briny. He pushed on the rail like he'd pushed on the passenger seat of the taxi, trying to make the ship go faster.

This was certainly the fastest he'd ever wanted to get to Rugged Island. He didn't want to keep bothering Mary, she might only grant three wishes a day, so instead he abused the poor handrail while fervently urging the boat to ' _speed the feck up, for feck's sake_ '.

Other passengers began to stare, but Ted was long past caring what they thought. Their sheeplike milling aggravated him. They didn't care that the ferry was crawling like a snail, they were enjoying themselves, ho ho! Didn't they know that a man's life was at stake here?

Whether it was by divine intervention or just a turn in the weather, a brisk wind blew up and propelled the ferry forward like a kick up the backside. Ted jumped up and down, excitedly adding a bit more impetus with his feet.

"That's it, girl... push harder," he cried, to the shock and chagrin of a gaggle of elderly ladies sitting on a wooden bench by the wheelhouse. "Harder, harder! Faster, faster! Yes! That's it! Good girl!" He was, of course, talking to the ferry, but suddenly realised Mary might think him a bit condescending towards women. He crossed himself quickly. "Not you, Mary, you're not a girl. You're a lovely woman." Ted prided himself on how smooth he could sometimes be with the opposite sex.

Even with the increase in speed it still felt like a century before Rugged Island hove into view. A quick look at his watch told Ted they'd only been afloat for half an hour, but he didn't believe it. They'd probably sailed through a wormhole or something- the Rugged Island Triangle. _Abandon hope, all ye who enter here._

At long last the ferry chugged into the tiny harbour which was little more than a couple of floating pontoons. Ted had long since descended from the upper deck and was first in line to get off, ignoring the old ladies behind him who were huffing and puffing. The boat was barely moored before Ted leaped over the side with his holdall, the ferrymen shouting angrily behind him. He thudded along the pontoon and up the concrete steps. He needed to find someone who would take him to Craggy Island- _fast_.

There was a boathouse ahead and as he ran towards it, he fancied he saw a familiar figure conversing with the owner. With a sinking heart, he recognised the arrogant tilt of the man's head, the kickable arse, the "I'm so much better than you" set of the shoulders. It was inevitable, he supposed, that he'd not last two minutes on Rugged Island without bumping into his sworn enemy.

"Dick!" he yelled as he reached the boathouse. "What the feck are you doing here?"

Father Dick Byrne spun around in surprise. "Ted! You old bastard! This is my island! What the feck are _you_ doing here?"

"I don't have time for your nonsense," Ted muttered, pushing past Father Dick. "I need a boat, pronto."

"Well, you're out of luck, because Cyril and I just hired the last one."

Father Cyril MacDuff appeared in the doorway of the boathouse wearing a pair of armbands and a stupid smirk.

Ted grabbed Dick's lapels in despair. "Damn you, Dick! I need to get to Craggy Island _right now_!"

Dick smiled smugly and twirled a boat ignition key around his finger. "Isn't that a coincidence? That's exactly where we're going. Right Cyril?"

Cyril nodded like a spring-headed toy on a car dashboard.

"What the feck are you doing going to Craggy Island?" Ted demanded, eyes ablaze with fury. Were they attempting a takeover? A coup d'etat while he was gone?

"Your job," Dick shot back. "Since you're not there to do it."

Ted thrust his face close to Dick's, who shrank back just a little bit, even though the smug grin stayed in place.

"What do you mean, my job? Explain yourself Dick, you, you... _shitehawk_!"

Knowing he had the upper hand, Dick became outrageously fake-friendly and condescending.

"Your dear housekeeper Mrs. Doyle phoned me in a right state. Said Father McGuire was in trouble. Said she didn't have _anyone else_ to turn to. Well, I said, how awful for you my dear lady. Of course you've phoned the right person. Cyril and I will be there in a shot!"

"Since when have you cared about Dougal or anything that happens to him?"

Dick escorted Ted to the motorboat he and Cyril had just hired. The owner had rolled it down to the shore and was standing in the shallows waiting for them to climb aboard.

"Since never. But Mrs. Doyle sounded frantic. She said you were off on vacation somewhere. Enjoying yourself, no doubt." Dick shook his head and tutted. "How selfish of you. But then, you always did put yourself first."

Ted fumed with impotent rage. He wanted to slap the man so hard, but Mary would never forgive him. Nevertheless, his fingers twitched like coiled snakes at his sides.

"I hate you, Father Dick Byrne!" he hissed, unable to think of anything more clever to say.

"I know," Dick smirked. "But let's discuss that on the way." He shoved Ted towards the boat. "Stop squawking and get in. You can watch me save your little friend from whatever misadventures have befallen him this time. Maybe you'll learn a thing or two about being a priest!"

Ted was more grateful than he would ever, _ever_ let on to Dick, even under extreme torture. He waded into the sea and clambered in before Dick had a chance to change his mind. Cyril provided a cheap laugh by slipping and falling in like an ungainly duckling, but Dick annoyingly climbed in like a seasoned sailor and settled in behind the wheel. Huddled in the back with his holdall, Ted prayed hard for Dougal's safety as the engine sputtered, then roared into life, filling the air with grey smoke and the smell of marine fuel.

Finally he was off to Craggy Island, and not a moment too soon!


	11. Chapter 11

When Father O'Dowd declared he was God, Dougal almost peed himself laughing. Why, he didn't even believe in God! The feller was obviously mad and there was nothing to worry about. But then something started happening. As O'Dowd's bizarre chanting and crucifix waving intensified, the dour priest had assumed an almost superhuman strength which he used to fling all the furniture into one corner as though it were made of matchwood. The bed now stood on its side against the wall with the mattress askew and sheets in disarray. Mrs. Doyle's secret was out - even Dougal was surprised by the thick pile of dust that lay beneath it in a perfect rectangle.

O'Dowd stood in the middle of it with his open prayer book and taunted it.

"Sundimundi! Alkatoosdi! Merzi dotesun dozidotesun littlelamzi divey!"

The dust began to shift and shimmer, rising up to swirl around O'Dowd. After a while Dougal, still huddled in his corner, noticed it was increasing in size like a brewing storm cloud, as though one from outside had somehow made its way in through the closed window and drawn curtains.

It wasn't long before O'Dowd was surrounded by this otherworldly apparition resembling a mini tornado full of dust and hairballs. Strange incantations were pouring from his mouth, words Dougal had never heard before even at the most off-the-wall Mass. (And there was plenty of those on Craggy Island, especially when the monkey priest came visiting.) At the same time the room began to smell funny, like Jack's socks, and started getting very warm. Dougal pulled at his tank top. His face and neck were beginning to glow, he could feel a bead of sweat on the back of his neck trickling into his dog collar. He had a sudden urge to rip the blasted thing off. It was a peculiar feeling altogether.

"Argy bargy moribundi," the tall priest chanted. "Pretzel ketzel incantado. Itzibitzi teeniweeni yellapolka dotbikini. Makka Pakka, Iggle Piggle, hey macarena!"

The cloud swelled until it filled the room. It was like being on a ride at Funland, thought Dougal as his chair began to rock from side to side. This was not the 'light' O'Dowd had promised. This was something very dark indeed.

And he didn't mind admitting, he was _scared._

* * *

 _God Almighty,_ thought Ted as the motorboat bounced along. _It's like I've been stuck in a Time Warp all morning_. He was finding it hard not to push on Dick's seat like he'd pushed on the taxi seat and the handrail of the ferry trying to make everyone go faster. Sooner or later the tactic would backfire and he didn't trust Dick Byrne not to throw him overboard and carry on to Craggy Island, _his_ island, without him. The impatient priest was pretty sure that if Dr. Sinnott took his blood pressure right now, the fecking BP monitor would explode, just like he was about to.

Cyril started blathering away in the front seat. "I hope we see some dolphins!"

"Me too, Cyril," Dick replied, the wind blowing his words directly into Ted's ears- as no doubt was the intention. "Let me know if you see one and I'll slow down."

"Don't you dare," Ted muttered furiously.

Dick looked over his shoulder with that infuriating smirk. "What was that, Father Crilly?"

Ted simpered back with his cheesiest fake smile. "I said I love the fresh air."

Dick laughed. "Better make the most of it. The nearer we get to Craggy Island, the more it will start to smell of failure and despair."

"Ooh, you really know how to kick a man when he's down," said Ted under his breath. But he really, _really_ didn't want to pester Mary any more than he had to. Instead he imagined all kinds of horrors raining down on Dick Byrne, like being splattered from head to toe by Tom with his sewage truck, being trapped in The Very Dark Caves with Father Noel and having Father Stone move in and live with him forever. His fantasies were getting quite good when Cyril suddenly cried out.

"DOLPHIN!"

And promptly grabbed the steering wheel out of Dick's hands.

The boat went up sideways on a wave and almost immediately came crashing down again. Dick lurched forward and butted Cyril in the back of the head. There was a sickening crunch- which Ted found rather amusing, then Dick screamed loudly as his nose began spurting blood.

"Jesus Feck, I tink me bloody dose is broken!"

Cyril rubbed the back of his head but was otherwise unharmed. He gazed out blankly at what he'd though was a dolphin. It was just a piece of driftwood.

Ted seized his chance. He dragged the blubbering Dick out of the driver's seat and dumped him unceremoniously in the back. Dick was in no position to argue- blood was bubbling through his fingers as he clutched his poor demolished hooter, crying like a baby.

"Don't worry Dick, we'll clean you up when we get to Craggy Island," Ted cackled, gunning the engine. "Now, Cyril, where were those dolphins?"

"I'm sorry!" Dick wailed. "I was only pullin' your chain! Just get me somewhere I can lie down and be sick!"

Ted put his foot down. He made sure he hit every bump and swell until Dick was curled up in a whimpering ball, his face sweaty and ashen, blood and seawater swirling around in the bottom of the boat.

"Enjoying the ride, Cyril?" Ted couldn't help it- he was back on top and ready to rumble.

Cyril shrank down into his seat and nodded, his eyes darting from Ted to Dick and back again as though he were watching a game at Wimbledon. A few minutes later he really did see a dolphin. It appeared in front of the boat, leaping and diving with a dolphin's adorable smile as though leading them on their journey.

* * *

Tom was on the pebbly beach looking for dropped money when he heard the roar of a motorboat engine. He dropped the beer bottle top he'd been examining and rose from his crouch as the boat came hurtling out of the sea and half way up the beach. Pebbles squeaked and squealed along its hull as it slewed sideways and came to an abrupt halt.

Tom broke into a filthy toothed grin and ran towards it.

"Is dat you, Fada?"

"No, it's King George the Third," said Ted sarcastically as he clambered out of the boat with his holdall. "And there's Humpty Dumpty in the back there."

Tom peered into the boat where Dick lay moaning and groaning.

"Are ye right dere Fada? Ye look a little peaky."

"Me feckid dose is broken ya eejit!"

Tom laughed. "Is dat all? I broke me feckin nose seventeen times in one day. Ah, ye'll be right in no time."

Ted grabbed Tom by the elbow and pulled him away from the boat. "Tom, do you have your van nearby? Dougal's in trouble and I need to get to the Parochial House fast."

"Aye, Fada. I'm parked up by de road dere."

Ted looked towards the road. There was Tom's battered old van parked willy nilly across the tarmac blocking it in both directions. His heart swelled. Ah, it was great to be home!

Everyone piled into the van. By this time Dick's nose had stopped bleeding and no one was really that bothered about him, even Cyril. He was left to wipe the dried blood from his face alone as the van ground its way round in a circle and headed up the road towards the countryside, throwing him around in the back even worse than when Ted had been driving the boat.

* * *

The candles O'Dowd had placed around the room flickered wildly in the winds generated by the swirling dust cloud. Dougal clung to his chair which rocked harder and harder. He felt as though he were riding a giant Buckaroo donkey and any minute now it would throw him off.

"Haven't we prayed enough for now? he wailed.

"My dear Father McGuire," O'Dowd shouted back. "The Dark Lord is manifesting- to stop now would be fatal!"

"Oh, right," said Dougal. "Can we stop for lunch though?"

"Lunch will be the last thing on your mind when you see what the Dark Lord has in store for you!"

"No, lunch is usually the first thing on my mind," said Dougal. "Especially at lunch time!"

O'Dowd was no longer listening. He had returned to chanting and waving his crucifix, peering at the words in his giant prayer book.

"Dark Lord come forth and be vanquished!"

Dougal thought it unlikely that the Dark Lord would come forth just to be vanquished, but perhaps O'Dowd had been right about the power of prayer. Because something certainly was manifesting. The cloud seemed to be parting in places, elongating into strange limb-like protrusions that wisped away from the main vortex. This was scarier even than Aliens, even worse than Jaws 2. Dougal found himself transfixed as the cloud appeared to develop a face- or rather, it had two eyes but the rest of it was hideous, like a kind of goat man thing. He hoped it didn't have four arses because it smelled bad enough in here already.

"Okus dokus pukka pies! Izzard gizzard lizard lies! She's got Bette Davis eyes! Come forth Lord and take your prize!"

Well, he wouldn't win any awards for poetry, but his gobbledygook had an alarming effect on the dust cloud. It swirled around to face Dougal and rose up like a ravenous monster, its wispy arms waving around like something out of Ghostbusters.

"Wait- !" cried Dougal. "What prize?"

O'Dowd thrust his arm out and pointed straight at the frightened young priest.

"You!" he thundered.

"But- but- I thought you were going to vanquish him! I didn't think I'd be vanquished too!"

"We must make the necessary sacrifices," the tall priest explained. "Once you've been consumed, his power will be weakened by your innocence and purity. That and the fact you're a holy man, like it or not."

Dougal swallowed hard. "But what about you? You're God- you can't get holier than that! Why don't you let him eat you? Wouldn't that kill him straight off?"

"He can't touch me. I'm protected by a force field. No, I'm afraid it has to be you."

Dougal tried to get off the chair but found that he was pinned down.

"If Ted was here, he'd say you were mad!"

"Then it's a good thing Ted's not here," the tall priest sneered. "Now stop babbling and let me finish. Dark Lord, _claim your prize_!"

* * *

Mrs. Doyle was wearing a track in the carpet with her pacing. How long was it going to take Father Byrne to get here? She hoped he wasn't taking the scenic route. She paced another circuit while Jack sat in grim silence, a line of spittle connecting his chin to his cardigan. She kept looking out of the window, only to be disappointed as the road outside remained stubbornly clear.

"Oh come on Father Byrne, come on! I know you and Father Crilly were never the best of friends but surely as a man of the cloth you're not going to let us down!"

Jack grumbled loudly. "GOBSHITE!"

"Father!"

"FATHER GOBSHITE!" Jack beamed at Mrs. Doyle, who rolled her eyes and resumed pacing.

There was a sudden wailing sound from above. It sounded like Father McGuire.

"Oh no! I can't just stand here and do nothing!"

Mrs. Doyle tottered out into the hallway and up the stairs as quickly as her spindly legs would carry her. She ran to the guest room and grabbed the door knob but it wouldn't turn. It wasn't as if the door was locked, the knob wouldn't turn at all. Not a fraction in either direction. It was stuck.

Mrs. Doyle hesitated, then knocked firmly but politely on the door.

"Now, you two, that's enough fun and games! You both come out of there at once!"

There was no answer, just more chanting and banging of furniture. She knocked again. She even offered refreshments. When they ignored _that_ , she knew it was _really_ serious.

She trudged downstairs feeling helpless and forlorn. Father McGuire had been such a _nice_ young fellow. She was going to miss him- he was the only person in the world who never, ever, _ever_ said no to a cup of tea.

As she returned to the living room, resigned to never seeing Father McGuire again, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. A beat up old van was chugging along on the road. She saw Tom in the driver's seat and sighed, sure that he was going to drive on by. Tom always had some nefarious business going on- it was usually best not to ask.

Mrs. Doyle's entire body slumped. It was no use. She'd tried her best, but no one was coming to help them. Just as she thought Tom's van was going to carry on down the road it suddenly turned into the driveway, almost as an afterthought. She could hardly believe her eyes, even after rubbing them three times. The van was definitely coming to their house!

"He's here!" she shouted excitedly. She ran to hug Jack but decided at the last minute that she didn't want her arms anywhere near his scabby old body, so she did an abrupt about-turn and went haring out of the front door with her arms still outstretched like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music.

If she was excited at the thought of Dick Byrne arriving, she almost had a heart attack when she saw who jumped out of the passenger side. She thought she was seeing things at first - why there were probably lots of white haired priests who looked just like Father Crilly roaming around. But then she got closer and the white haired priest said her name, and she burst into tears of joy. It _was_ him! He was home, home at last!

She swept him into the hug she'd almost given Jack.

"Father Crilly! It _is_ you! Oh, thank God you're here! You don't know how much we need you!"

"I think I do know, Mrs. Doyle," said Ted knowingly. "I had a premonition that Dougal's in trouble."

Mrs. Doyle nodded, pulling Ted surprisingly roughly towards the house. "You'd better hurry, Father! There's a devil in the house and it's got Father McGuire in its beastly clutches!"


	12. Chapter 12

When Ted crossed the threshold of the Craggy Island Parochial House, he thought at first that Mary had lied to him, that Mrs. Doyle was just a hysterical old biddy, or that all the fates had conspired to bring him home to this godforsaken island from which he'd never, ever escape again. The house was quiet and tidy, there was no sign of anything being amiss whatsoever. He could hear Jack muttering in the front room- _Drink! Feck! Girls! -_ and for one horrible moment he felt lightheaded and dizzy, thinking he really was having a nervous breakdown and everything he'd seen, heard, felt and dreamed of had been one giant hallucination. This was something that blasted Dick Byrne was never going to forget, especially as he'd cracked his nose and had blood smeared all over his face and was standing beside him in the silent hallway with a look of thunder to rival any of Bishop Brennan's.

"And the trouble is where, Mrs. Doyle?"

The flustered housekeeper pointed upstairs with a trembling hand. All seemed quiet on the upper floors too.

"This had better not be a wind-up, Crilly," snarled Dick, vocalising Ted's worst fears, but an otherwordly scream from above soon had them running for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, except for Cyril who fell on the first step and Mrs. Doyle who tripped over him. Tom brought up the rear by scrambling over both Mrs. Doyle and Cyril, using Cyril's head as a launch pad to spring himself up four stairs in one go.

Ted hurtled down the upper landing to the guest room door and grabbed the door knob in both hands.

It wouldn't budge.

"Open this door!" he shouted, banging on it with both fists. "Whoever is in there, open it right now!"

The same wailing voice came drifting out from inside. "Ted! Ted is that you? Ted, help me! I don't want to be eaten by a giant cloud!"

"Dougal!" The white haired priest went frantic at the fear and panic in Dougal's voice. He rammed his shoulder against the door, twice, three times, four times. It was stuck solid, like a concrete wall. He prayed to Mary, not caring now if he bothered her or not. Slamming himself against the door, over and over again, he begged her to help him, but nothing happened.

"Oh, this is great! You can give someone the shits, make a boat go faster and break Dick's nose, but you can't help me get my friend out of the clutches of Satan!" It was fair to say he was becoming a little exasperated.

Ted signalled to Cyril. With Tom's help they used Cyril as a battering ram but even his thick head had no effect. There wasn't even a dent left on the door. They put him down and he staggered gormlessly to Dick, who rolled his eyes and muttered something about lunatics being in charge of asylums.

Ted shot Dick a fierce glare. "Oh, don't feel as though you need to help or anything."

"Why should I? You broke me feckin' nose!"

"What about all the glory you were after?"

"I changed me mind. There's no glory in rescuing your idiot friend from some nonsense about giant clouds. You're here now, big shot. Do it yourself." Dick sat down against the opposite wall and started rubbing his nose, whimpering like a martyr at the pain it caused.

"Right, since I'm on my feckin' own with no help from either you or Our Lady of Lourdes, I'll kick the feckin' door down myself!"

Pumped up with anger and righteous indignation, Ted took a running jump at the door and hurled his entire body weight against it. It burst open at once and he went flying through the opening, landing with a horrendous thud on the floor at Father O'Dowd's feet. Above him the satanic cloud swirled. With a feeling of horror he realised it was the exact same cloud-like portal that had swallowed Dougal in his dream.

Dougal was in the dead centre of the cloud, flailing like a sparrow in a cage.

"TEE-EED!" he cried.

"DOUGAL!" Ted cried back.

"Well. Isn't this romantic?" sneered O'Dowd.

Ted clambered to his feet. "Who the feck are you?" he demanded.

"I am your replacement. I am God."

Ted's eyes widened. "They replaced me with God? I'm a better priest than I thought!"

"He's not God," Dougal wailed as he spun round and around. "He's a mad eejit!"

"Well he must be something, to summon forth a big cloud like that."

Standing in the doorway, Mrs. Doyle went beetroot red. "Oh, Father! Forgive me for not vacuuming under the bed for ten years. I never thought anyone would notice."

Ted stared at the swirling cloud. When he looked closer, he could see hairballs and rabbit droppings, a handful of Quality Street wrappers, two or three paperclips and some old crumpled balls of tissue. "The dirt has taken on a life of its own," he muttered. "Nice going, Mrs. Doyle."

"Oh! This is all my fault!" Mrs. Doyle fell to her knees in prayer, crossing herself a dozen times or more.

"Be quiet, woman," O'Dowd grumbled. "And don't take credit for my actions! I have summoned the Dark Lord himself, and salvation is on its way!"

"Not if I can help it," said Ted. He drew his fist back and swung a punch at the taller man's jaw. Knuckles connected with jawbone and O'Dowd went out like a light. He sprawled on the floor at the foot of the swirling dust cloud, a look of bewilderment on his face.

Ted rubbed his throbbing knuckles and tried not to cry. The dust cloud was still there, rotating angrily with Dougal in the middle like a ping pong ball in a whirlpool. "Dammit! I broke me hand for nothing!"

Behind him, Dick Byrne started chuckling. Then he was guffawing. Finally he belly laughed with all the delight of a bully stealing someone's dinner money. "Feckin' serves you right! I hope it feckin' hurts!"

"Ye've no need to speak to Fada Crilly loike dat," shouted Tom, springing to Ted's defence. And then Mrs. Doyle chimed in with, "To think I even bothered to ask you for help! There'll be no cup of tea for you when all this is over!"

Cyril looked panicky. "Can I still have a cup of tea, Mrs. Doyle?"

Mrs. Doyle frowned at the gormless young priest. "Are you with him?" she asked, narrowing her eyes and pointing at Dick.

Cyril glanced at Dick. "No," he declared abruptly, causing Dick to stop laughing and splutter in outrage.

"Then you can have all the tea you want," said Mrs. Doyle, her face transforming into that of an angel. " _And_ triangular sandwiches!"

Ted's heart warmed at Mrs. Doyle and Tom sticking up for him. The familiarity of home was beginning to seep into his veins- it may not be the most exciting place in the world but it was where he had friends. Yes, friends... people who had always liked him while he dreamed his unattainable dreams.

It had hurt to discover that Los Angeles was a crime ridden hell hole and no one on the mainland gave a monkeys about him. It hurt to have his bubble deflated, but he was finally beginning to understand that he'd been focusing on the wrong things all along. He had lost his faith, and tried to find it in material possessions and ego trips. But none of that mattered without people. Good people. _His_ people.

The people of Craggy Island.

With that in mind, Ted turned back to the roiling dust cloud and squared his shoulders bravely. "Now you listen here, whoever or whatever you are. My name is Father Ted Crilly, and this is _my_ parish- and I am ordering you in the name of all that is Holy to let go of Father McGuire and **_get the feck out of my house_**!"

There was instant change within the cloud. Dougal began spinning faster, his pale face coming in and out of view as the cloud whirled him around.

"Ohhh Ted, I don't like this one little bit! I think I'm gonna be sick!"

Ted grabbed O'Dowd's 'Holy' book and crucifix from the nightstand. The book was bound with leather and had weird pentagram designs on the front and back but when he glanced inside he was surprised to see recipes for mutton stew and sausage meat cakes. A quick flip to the inside cover and his mouth fell open. It was nothing but a copy of Mrs. Beeton's Cookery Book.

O'Dowd was beginning to come round. Ted slammed the book shut and put the crucifix on top of it. There was no more time to waste.

"I command you to put down Father McGuire and leave!" he cried, feeling a sudden surge of faith and confidence that made him feel ten feet tall yet the weight of a feather.

"Ted!" said Dougal. "What's happened to your eyes? There's white light coming out of them! Wow! You're like one of the X-Men!"

Ted barely acknowledged him. He now felt as omnipotent as the Holy Father Himself.

"I am Father Ted Crilly!" he repeated. "And I. Have. Got. The. POWER!"

The dust cloud recoiled and spat Dougal out with such force that he flew out of the room and across the hall, landing with a thump on top of Dick Byrne, whose nose immediately began bleeding again.

"Get your feckin' elbow out of my face!" Dick whined, ignoring the fact that Dougal had just been saved from consumption by an evil cloud of dust.

Ted could stand no more of Dick's behaviour.

"And take them both with you," he shouted, pointing at Dick and O'Dowd.

At once the cloud swirled into the hallway and sucked Dick into the centre of the vortex. It then retreated and pulled O'Dowd up off the floor. It spun with renewed vigour for a few moments then imploded on itself and vanished into nothing.

A couple of sweet wrappers drifted to the carpet.

And that was it.

Cyril and Tom stood open mouthed in the doorway.

"That was feckin' insane!" cried Tom. "Are ye some kind o' wizard, Fada?"

Ted chuckled. "Not that I know of, Tom." But inside he was proud of himself, proud that he'd defeated evil all on his own.

Dougal got to his feet, brushing off non-existent dust. He was as clean and baby soft as he was before this had all started. Ted went over to him and pulled him into a bearhug. Neither of them said a word. It was as though even an eejit like Dougal understood perfectly what had happened while Ted was away.

"I'm so glad to be home," Ted stated. "The mainland is a boring pile of shyte compared to here."

"Aye, Fada," said Tom with his familiar dirty toothed grin. "Ye belong right here wid us."

There was a time when a statement like that would have made Ted cringe into a ball of self-loathing. But this time it made him feel good.

No- it made him feel _great._

He added Tom to the hug.

"Oh, Father, I promise to always sweep under the beds in future," cried Mrs. Doyle, shedding real tears as she too was pulled into the huddle.

"Can I live here with you?" asked Cyril, plaintively.

"No, Cyril, you can't. You're in charge of Rugged Island now. But come here anyway."

And with a great feeling of magnanimity, Ted reached out an arm and dragged Cyril in between himself and the rather pungent Tom.

 _Next: Epilogue_


End file.
